


But Paris was a very old city and we were young

by GingerNinjaAbi



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, I just like Paris a lot ok, M/M, R you break my heart, also excessive hemingway quotes for titles sorry, and barricade babies, idk my brain exploded, not sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-05 14:25:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 99,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerNinjaAbi/pseuds/GingerNinjaAbi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perhaps somewhere in between all the cups of coffee, shots of tequila, sunny March days, terrible lumpy jumpers, love, cigarettes, drunken nights and the desire to change the world they'll all leave Paris with a degree in something. Or not. Grantaire's money is on no. But he's a pessimist who's hopelessly in love, so perhaps his opinion shouldn't count.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When spring came there were no problems

**Author's Note:**

> I know I'm adding to a long list of modern au's but for some reason the amis all seem to slot rather well into the 21st century. Plus Jehan in flowered jeans is something I can't get out my mind. And nobody can argue against hipster revolutionaries, right? Right.

It was sunny on the way to the Luxembourg Gardens that day. The kind of sunny that lit the Pantheon’s roof and made the clustered rooftops of Paris gleam. The glow of spring that didn’t really belong so early in March, Jehan had mused, as he weaved between the milling couples and pouting children that had been forced outside to enjoy this novel early heat. 

He’d started out that afternoon strolling, as all citizens of Paris do, but the text that had buzzed through moments ago as he had been starting along the Rue Cujas had caused him to turn abruptly and head back towards the Boulevard Saint-Michel; past the brasseries and cafes to that expanse of lawns tucked in the heart of Paris. A small pastoral oasis nestled amongst lazy urban sprawl.

Dashing over the busy road and through the gates; the tall trees hugging in on him, he wandered towards where the text had instructed him, hands in the pockets of his flower imprinted jeans as he gazed dreamily up at the tangled webs of branches where small buds were beginning to rise like raindrops. 

“Prouvaire!”

His gaze darted back to the ground and the small smile that had been tugging at his lips blossomed into a toothy grin as he waved back to the cluster of people seated near the statue of the Greek actor; right where Courfeyrac had said they would be. 

The statue was Courfeyrac’s favourite here in the gardens, Jehan remembered, as he began to hurry over. He could see why the graceful, handsome carving would appeal to the art history student, even if Courfeyrac most likely didn’t really take the time to take in all the small details of the spread toes and the intricate mask, and was perhaps a little more fixated on its rather well-formed torso. Grantaire had always mocked the statue, calling its facial features vacant and declaring his favourite was far better. Jehan had never asked him which one his favourite was.

The wrought iron bench by the statue was already occupied by two of Jehan’s friends; despite them sitting at opposite ends, a vast expanse of space between them as if they were strangers. Even if the dark haired boy at one end was shooting the unseeing politics student at the other lingering glances over a can of cheap beer.

Courfeyrac was spread out on the grass before them; his iPod by his side and pink headphones in his ears as he swayed his shoulders to inaudible music. Jehan had a feeling it was the Midnight in Paris soundtrack he’d downloaded after watching it with him yesterday, to which Courfeyrac had reviewed as ‘oh so beautiful, Jehan, why don’t we time travel more?’ 

By the art history student sat Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet and Combeferre; cross legged on the shaded grass beside piles of books and notepads. From the odd little squint Joly was sending up at the sky now and then, Jehan assumed they occupied the shade to avoid the possibility of the medical student acquiring sunstroke.

“There’s our little poet.” Courfeyrac smirked, yanking out one of his earphones to twirl it round his finger as Jehan sat down, “It seemed like too nice a day to have a study group in a café, so I suggested here.” 

“Even if the coffee is a little further away here.” Combeferre noted from over one of his many hideous textbooks for his English and Economics course. Courfeyrac stuck his tongue out at him.

“Anyway, I thought you would appreciate the flowers that are reclaiming the gardens, Jehan.” He continued as if Combeferre hadn’t spoken, and paused a moment before adding with a less innocent grin, “And a lot of people are wearing shorts today. It would be a crime to not be out here to appreciate that.”

Jehan hoped he wasn’t blushing at the thought that Courfeyrac had summoned them all out here partly for his benefit, and decided to busy himself with digging a book of poetry from his rucksack along with his fountain pen, trying to hide his probably overzealous smile. 

“Where are Bahorel and Marius?” He asked, more to turn his attention from the rather splendid way the gleams of sunlight falling through the high trees were tangling in Courfeyrac’s dark curls than actually caring for the exact whereabouts of the respective criminology and law students. 

“Bahorel’s caught up in a lecture.” Feuilly answered before Courfeyrac could, almost to Jehan’s relief, looking up from the paper fan he had been folding instead of tackling the small mound of work laid out before him, “Or being started on in a back alley. I’m never quite sure which with him.” 

“And Marius is still lost.” Combeferre added, double checking his phone. They heaved a collective sigh. The thing was, Marius got lost so often they’d unintentionally abandoned the initial impulse of sending him directions. It usually transpired he was only a few metres away, and just facing the wrong direction. 

Jehan felt himself slip into a contented daydream as the group lapsed into a comfortable silence, looking through the rustling trees that were beginning to bloom into life, and across at the distant elegant form of the Pantheon visible rising above the railings of the garden’s walls.

He was half scrawling a few verses on the margins of his book when another person joined their group; thin and gangling beneath a lumpy jumper and corduroy trousers, and Jehan’s attention was diverted.

Marius had arrived; flushed and dishevelled as he crashed down on the grass beside Feuilly, who was now waving his paper fan in Joly’s direction as he complained about the heat.

“Sorry!” Marius exclaimed, “I came in from the other entrance and there are so many statues here I couldn’t find the actor one so I stopped to ask this old man and somehow I mentioned that I studied law and he started questioning me about what I thought about the new employment law or something and then I got confused so I ran away and-” 

“The Sauvadet Law?”

It seemed in amongst Marius’s babbling the politics student, from his perch on the bench, had noted something of interest. Enjolras was now looking up from his book, his gaze piercing Marius in his intensely pensive way.

“I-” Marius trailed off, frowning as he pulled at the sleeves of his ugly jumper, as if he was wondering where on earth Enjolras’s comment had come from .

“I hope you told him that it will cause a generation of scientists to be lost, as it will take away any environment that would offer a secure guarantee of their futures.” Enjolras continued, still looking at Marius in that direct way of his as Marius looked increasingly uncomfortable. 

“I’m sure that’s exactly what Marius told him, Enjolras.” Grantaire put in with an easy grin from the other end of the bench that put him slightly further away from their haphazard circle. He had started tapping his oil pastel covered fingers against his beer can, flicking his gaze to Enjolras every few moments as if to see if it was annoying him. The muscle flickering in the blonde’s jaw seemed to ascertain that it was.

“Are we heading out tonight?” Feuilly asked mildly, seeming to have noticed what Jehan had.

“Can we just go to the bar?” Marius was now trying to extricate himself from the jumper, and his voice was muffled as he tried to free his head from the monstrosity, “I’m a bit low on money this week.”

“Mmm.” Courfeyrac agreed, studying the slip of torso that Marius was revealing as his t-shirt stuck to his jumper. Jehan felt himself scowling slightly. 

“I can’t go.” Grantaire announced loudly from his corner, “I have a deadline tomorrow. The art department has screwed me over.” 

“You screw over the art department if you ask me with the amount of time you don’t spend in it.” Enjolras told him. There was a faint shuffling he didn’t notice as his friends on the ground below exchanged their not particularly secretive here-we-go-again look.

“There’s a lot of talk about screwing all of a sudden.” Courfeyrac said loudly as Grantaire opened his mouth to reply. Jehan suppressed a giggle. He was fairly sure some colour had started high on Enjolras’s cheeks. “But are you serious, R? You can’t come tonight?

“He’s never serious.” Enjolras said irritably, looking back to his book. Jehan thought he saw Grantaire’s smile waver slightly, but his beer can was brought up too quick to his lips for him to be sure. 

“Nah, I’ll be there.” He said after draining the can, setting it down noisily in the space between him and Enjolras, who gritted his teeth. 

Jehan felt himself worrying the ends of his jumper as he contemplated the seemingly unfathomable workings of Grantaire’s mind, and let his gaze fall onto Courfeyrac, who was busy plucking up the small, tentative clusters of daisies that had been growing over the past weeks. Fretting about Grantaire and his rocky link- if it could even be called that- with Enjolras was one thing, but this new thing, this new thing he felt stirring in his chest when he looked over at Courfeyrac, was quite another. It scared him, even here in this tentatively warm March sunshine; scared him in a way that he was unaccustomed to. He normally liked crushes; the way they flipped his heart and sparked scribbled verses on the nearest paper. But with someone who meant as much to him as a friend as Courfeyrac did…well it was another matter.

Jehan closed his eyes; letting the sun warm his face as he instead focused on the red beneath his eyelids and not on the interwoven dramas that seemed to be spreading out amongst their group.

His peaceful meditation was interrupted by a tinny rendition of Rihanna that began to pierce the calm air.

“Courfeyrac , if I have to hear that ringtone one more time I am going to ram your phone down your throat.” He heard Enjolras snap. 

“I take it you do not feel we’re beautiful like diamonds in the sky?” He heard Courfeyrac enquire, not sounding at all apologetic, and no doubt sporting a toothy grin. He did however, mute the not so dulcet tones blaring from his mobile rather hastily. 

Jehan opened his eyes in time to see Enjolras’s dark glare, that quickly established that, no, he did not identify with the song lyrics.

“I thought this was a study group meeting?” Combeferre said quietly, and his point was well made, even if he too had cast his book aside and was currently in the Burmese position. 

“Well if anyone would care to test me on sexy Greek statues be my guest.” Courfeyrac commented smugly, digging a thumbnail into the stem of one of the claimed daisies and laboriously poking another through it. Jehan watched him with poorly disguised fascination. 

Grantaire, for one reason or another, let out a very loud snort. 

The study group didn’t last a particularly long time. What with Grantaire becoming increasingly rowdy, Enjolras increasingly irritated and Joly increasingly sunburnt, it wasn’t too long before they were all eventually clambering to their feet, damp from the grass the sun had been too slow to dry being brushed from their jeans, and bags being hauled back into hands. 

It was as they were heading back to the path that Courfeyrac leaned over to Jehan. With gentle fingers he slotted the daisy chain in the poet’s hair.

* * * 

The bar Marius had held preference over was one of their regular haunts.

It was one of those typical Parisian bars, tucked down a side alley you would only find if you were rather lost. Rather unsurprisingly, it had been Marius who had found it. 

The neon lights that wound above the glass door, extinct in the day but glowing red at night, pronounced it to be the _Café Musain_ , and Grantaire mainly liked it for the offer of shots of vodka at one euro each on Wednesday nights. 

He’d been rather later than he had anticipated finishing off his damn art project; and in the end he’d been rushing; a shake in his hands that wasn’t born from holding a paintbrush for hours on end. He’d finally escaped onto the streets of Paris; hastening past the bars that already had customers spilling out onto the pavements with the dull throb of techno music beating with the flashing bar lights. The night was cold now; March having slipped back into winter, and he shivered in his thin jacket; wishing he’d remembered to eat before heading out and wondering if there was any way he could pull himself off his current course to buy some greasy chips or something else equally and wonderfully unhealthy that would make Enjolras shudder to watch him eat.

But he knew he wouldn’t; his mind too wired to head to anywhere but the bar and soak his lips on vodka, or tequila, or well…anything. 

His head was reeling from the fresh air; his eyes heavy with a tiredness he liked to prolong as long as he could; because he hated sleeping of late. He’d always return back to the same dizzying dreams; walking alongside faceless people; driving himself mad for never seeing their eyes and waking up and staring at his grey, darkened ceiling and feeling that deep stab of loneliness, or despair, or whatever crippling feeling that was; that didn’t just touch his heart, but every centimetre of his body.

He now turned down a side street; one of the many he’d committed to vague and drunken memory, running his hands along the bollards; their cool metal soothing even to his cold skin.

The _Musain_ was crowded when he finally reached it; bouncers at the door and a small queue that saw Grantaire shivering fully when he eventually was allowed into the warm depths of the bar; immediately revelling in the scent of alcohol and the pulse of music that would throb against his ears and forever be associated with drinking too much. 

It didn’t take a second to pick out Enjolras; tall and lofty as ever as the bar lights caused his curling hair to gleam like a halo. Grantaire tried to avoid musings like that, particularly…well…perhaps he didn’t. In fact, he _definitely_ didn’t. When he stopped to think about it, most of his thoughts seemed to be musings on Enjolras.

“Bastard.” He muttered, and knew he didn’t mean it at all. He then made the abrupt decision to head to the bar _before_ joining Enjolras and the others. His friends, he should say. 

Courfeyrac, seeming to have a sixth sense for new arrivals in bars, saw him before anyone else as he headed over, second drink already in hand. Grantaire ignored the slightly wide-eyed look he received from Joly and simply assumed the fact that he’d forgotten to brush his hair for a while was starting to become obvious.

“Hello Grantaire,” Beamed Jehan, stirring a mojito with a colourful straw, “Did you know there’s paint all over your face?”

Enjolras looked over at this and Grantaire could have happily throttled the little poet there and then. 

“No I didn’t know. _Thanks_ Jehan.” 

Jehan, despite having the decency to actually point it out, blushed all the same.

“So were you actually painting onto a surface?” Courfeyrac asked him, as Grantaire inconspicuously ran a hand along his jaw, “Or did you just like…bathe in acrylics?” 

Joly whimpered at the prospect. 

Grantaire felt his normally outwardly pleasant mood returning once he’d found the bottom of his glass, and after a quick trip to the bathrooms to see to the paint on his face (which turned out to be matted in his hair too, which he left after copious amounts of tap water and swearing at his reflection) he was happy to sing loudly along to the music with Bossuet and help shove Courfeyrac in the direction of people he hadn’t flirted with yet. For some reason Jehan became fixated on his mojito whenever this happened.

The pair of arms that wrapped around Grantaire’s neck threw him off slightly as he went to head over to the bar for a refill.

“You going to buy me a drink, _babe_?”

The mocking voice was all too familiar, and Grantaire felt a fond smile wriggle onto his lips as he turned to face Eponine, her eyebrows tilted with the twisted grin she was wearing.

“Depends which one of us is feeling the most sorry for ourselves tonight.” He replied, digging money out his pocket all the same.

“It’s always a fifty fifty with us, honey.” She agreed, looping her arm through his and dragging him towards the bar, “Although I did skip my lecture today to help Marius find his house keys.”

“You win for now.” Grantaire noted. 

Caught up as he was, talking animatedly with Eponine as they leant against the glossy bar, he didn’t notice Enjolras until he bumped shoulders with him. And then the resulting thrill down his arm was enough to rival any shot of alcohol. Hell, more than enough.

“Tequila?” He asked the stupidly beautiful man, partly from nothing else to say and partly because he was still in shock and that was the first word he could find. His arm had goosebumps. 

“No.” Was Enjolras’s stiff reply. 

“Come on, Apollo.” Grantaire wheedled, a toothy grin blossoming over his face as he saw a flush appear on Enjolras’s cheeks; a flush that always flowed over his cheekbones when he was growing irate, “Some student you are. You look like you want to pick a fight with everyone in here. Have a tequila or two and you’ll feel much better.”

“Is that your mentality?” Enjolras shot at him, folding his arms. Grantaire tried very hard not to look at the slanting curves of his arm muscles, stretching the fabric of his shirt. He really did try very hard not to look.

“Naturally.” He said, reassuming the grin that had slid slightly from his face, “It’s a universally accepted truth.”

“I don’t think I understand your mind-set, Grantaire.”

“If you would deem to stoop to it, you mean.” Grantaire muttered. Enjolras didn’t hear.

Still, he remained by Grantaire until the tequila came, and squinting through bitter lime and salt, Grantaire finally saw him re-join Combeferre and Feuilly and tried to ignore the deep plunge of discontent in his chest that he seemed to feel whenever he interacted with Enjolras. That afternoon in the park had been no different, and he’d tried not to dwell on it as he’d headed to the university campus afterwards. But it was like with everything he tried to do. Impossible. 

Three tequilas later and Marius arrived, folding something that looked suspiciously like a map into his jeans and still clad in the terrible jumper he had worn earlier. It made Grantaire’s eyes hurt just looking at it, and he was someone used to looking at bad clothing choices. Just look at Jehan. 

But the jumper didn’t seem to deter Eponine, who promptly vanished from his side, leaving him to brood into a glass beer bottle by himself until he pulled himself together and headed over to Bahorel, Joly and Jehan.

The night passed tolerably well after he’d lost count of exactly how much he’d had to drink and that tolerable buzz that came with the music and the alcohol had firmly established itself in his mind and limbs. The buzz made his voice grow louder though, straining to hear himself speak, and it made him grow stupid, pushing Enjolras to the point of snapping whenever he came within earshot, just because he could. Because that buzz made him daring.

In the end the plastered wall outside the bar was the only thing keeping him upright as he clung onto Jehan’s shoulder, humming Rihanna under his breath and realizing he must be a lot drunker than he thought.

“Help.” Jehan’s voice squeaked. 

“You take him home,” Combeferre’s voice said, addressing someone out of Grantaire’s reeling eye range as he stared at the swaying pavement and tried to remember the rest of the lyrics. “I’m already taking Feuilly, Joly and Bossuet and the others aren’t coming yet.” 

There was a brief, cloudy moment before hands pulled Grantaire forwards and he groaned in protest.

“Come on.” A voice said sharply. He froze at that and the pieces of conversation clicked together. Enjolras’s voice. Enjolras was taking him home.

“Do I have a rescuer?” He grinned, the darkness momentarily confusing him until he was shoved down into a car seat; the slam of the car door resounding through his head as he blinked in the sight of Enjolras’s Vauxhall Adam; all clean and fresh smelling. His exact opposite right now, he reckoned.

The driver’s side door opened and Enjolras slid into the seat, not looking at him as pulled his door shut and started the engine. From the angle of his jaw, he was angry. Nothing new there, then.

“I could have walked you know.” Grantaire finally said, moving his fingers absently over the pane of the window; not looking at the apartments and bars of Paris beginning to blur past as they pulled out of the side street and onto one of the many winding roads, but instead at the striking features of the man driving, drinking in his silhouette, the flicks of his curling hair, the tensed knuckles of his hand; drinking them in deeper and more devoutly than any spirit or shot. 

Enjolras snorted.

“We tried that last time and found you down an alleyway at five in the morning.” He said, his voice terse. 

“I was resting. It’s a long walk back to my place.”

“No, it’s _not_.” 

Grantaire smiled at Enjolras’s frustrated tone, silently revelling in the way it was reserved just for him, angry words that were his and his alone. What did he care for praise from Enjolras when he gave it to others? This here, this was unique, and alongside the flickers of his agony, it gave him a flicker of twisted content.

“What were you thinking drinking so much anyway?” Enjolras snapped as he veered onto the Quai Voltaire, the Louvre just hidden past his shoulder on the other side of the Seine. “This is why you complain you can’t afford oil paint.”

“No, it’s why I complain I can’t afford central heating.” Grantaire corrected him, drumming his fingers against the window, and trying to ignore the queasy feeling tugging at his stomach. 

“Please say you’re joking.”

“I’m never serious, remember?” Grantaire said with a twisted smile, bitterness seeping into his tones however much he tried to mask it. He felt Enjolras’s eyes on him, but he doubted very much he remembered his comment in the Luxembourg earlier that day. Enjolras didn’t remember things like that.

When he looked at Enjolras again his eyes were back on the road. 

Grantaire slouched backwards in his seat, his arms folded petulantly, turning away from the boy who seemed to burn like the sun and instead forcing his eyes to his window; the streetlamps flashing past nowhere near as bright as Enjolras. 

The dull rhythm of tyres turning on wet road and the cadenced thrum of windscreen wipers was all that filled the car for the next five minutes; the lack of any other reverberation pressing down on Grantaire as he shifted in his seat, wishing he wasn’t him, wishing a thousand things and above all wishing Enjolras would speak, and perhaps for once not with that dimly disgusted expression that would stab always a little bit further into his far too abused heart. 

The queasy feeling that he had been successfully keeping at bay began to turn his stomach as they passed Pont Neuf, the cold window he’d been resting his head against doing nothing to deter it no matter how hard he tried to distract himself.

“Shit.” He moaned, “Stop the car.”

“Why?” Enjolras asked sharply, and Grantaire mentally cursed him.

By way of answer, he leaned forwards and started retching. 

He lost most of what Enjolras was muttering under his breath as he pulled harshly over, car horns reverberating through the air, but as Grantaire clambered out he definitely caught the words ‘my upholstery’ and ‘drunkards.’

Spewing his guts up on the pavement made him feel both worse and better. The waters of the Seine glowed through his streaming eyes; yellow and black and red; the lights of the city flowing in that river. The familiar sounds of Paris soothed him slightly; the sounds of passing traffic and distant pounding of music, despite the overlay of the open car door beeping. The cold night air soothed his tired skin as he worked a hand through his paint-stained curls, and he turned back to the car; hating himself for doing this now, and unmanageably revelling at the drawn out length of time he was circling his sun.

Enjolras hadn’t moved from his seat, his hands resting on the wheel as he looked at Grantaire with an odd mixture of mild pity and strong disgust. That look that hurt and that look he would crave if it was gone forever. Because he’d rather have disgust than nothing.

“I feel much better now.” He announced in a cheerful voice once he’d climbed back into his seat, strapping himself in and turning to Enjolras with an overzealous grin. “You’ve missed the turning for my place, by the way.”

“You’re staying on my sofa if you don’t have heating at your place.” Was all Enjolras said as he pulled off the curb. The words weren’t spoken kindly, or lightly; but perhaps there wasn’t quite as much sharpness as usual in his tone. And it took Grantaire so completely aback he felt as though he had just been plunged headfirst into a vast, freezing ocean; his heart beating out such a ridiculously fast rhythm in his chest he wasn’t sure if he needed to be sick again. Enjolras didn’t try to fill the silence that had suddenly mapped out between them, and Grantaire wondered if he had any idea that effect his words had held. Probably not.

In the end, he recovered in the only way he could. By being a thorn in Enjolras’s side.

“Ah radio, great.” He grinned, leaning over to thumb the controls so that a sudden blare of techno filled the car.

“Turn it off.” Enjolras said instantly, and unless Grantaire was still a little drunk on alcohol and surprise, he was sure he caught relief in Enjolras’s tones, mingled with the usual waspishness.

“How am I supposed to stay up-to-date with all these morbid current affairs if you won’t let me listen to the radio?” 

“This isn’t current affairs, Grantaire. It’s _Chérie FM_.”

“You were hoping for a more classical station, I suppose?” Grantaire persisted, still leaning forwards to ram the ‘next’ button, his head almost knocking into Enjolras’s elbow,

“Just leave it alone.”

“But now it’s on _Romantic FM_.” Grantaire said with his best impression of a whine, flopping back in his seat and ignoring the way his stomach still pulled uncomfortably at the rapid motion. “And that’s no good. Unless you’re trying to seduce me?”

He wish he could say exactly where this streak of insurgence was hurtling from; words spilling from him like a burst river as he clutched at anything that would make Enjolras tighten his grip on the steering wheel all the further, his knuckles whitened with ill-suppressed exasperation.

When Enjolras flicked him an irritated glance, Grantaire met his gaze grinning and, throwing any reservations and attempts at self-preservation out of the window, he trailed a suggestive finger up along his paint-stained jeans.

The car lurched to a stop, which didn’t do a hell of a lot for his queasiness.

The engine cut and the silence that fell on the two students fell heavier than a dumbbell. 

“We’re here.” Enjolras’s voice was tight, his jaw gritted and his movements stiff. Grantaire found that his heart was thudding in his chest; thudding so much he was sure his entire body was moving with it and as Enjolras stepped out the car he ran a hand over his face; letting out a shaky breath that he wasn’t sure was entirely down to sickness. 

He got out the car with weak legs, the night having caught up with him, if he had really escaped it in the first place. The pangs of hunger were still there in his stomach, but the cold of the night seemed to be radiating away from him right now; his skin warm to the point of feverish as he followed Enjolras into his apartment building, only pausing to look back at the car.

Which was almost diagonal and at least a metre from the curb. 

“That was some atrocious parking.” Grantaire noted. Enjolras ignored him.

They took the stairs, which Grantaire thought was possibly a form of punishment for him having nearly thrown up in Enjolras’s car, but he followed obediently; a dust stream following its comet up those cold staircases with black iron banisters.

Enjolras’s apartment was on the fifth floor. Grantaire had only been in there once, but he’d filed its image away; a clear thought in his hazy memory, and when Enjolras pushed open the door and flicked on the light, he found it very much the same. 

Essentially Parisian; whitewashed with windows that looked out over the city, to where the Eiffel Tower was flashing in the middle ground. Totally devoid of character, except where Jehan had helpfully added a few photo frames and vases and rugs; it seemed the only part of his apartment that Enjolras focused on was the ridiculously expansive bookcase that really did look very threatening with huge bound volumes on subjects Grantaire had absolutely no interest in. 

He loved it though, the whole apartment, because here was where Enjolras lived, where he would step barefoot in mornings and where he closed his eyes and rested. Stupid little things Grantaire had never seen him do that made Enjolras so unequivocally human he felt foolish for considering that of course, never weary Enjolras must indeed get weary.

“The sofa’s over there.” Enjolras said curtly, shutting the door behind Grantaire and gesturing towards where the open plan kitchen met the living room, “I’ll get you a blanket.”

Grantaire watched him head off towards a door that must lead to his bedroom and, oh god, it took every ounce of his willpower to wrench his eyes away and try and focus on the Eiffel Tower; its lights glittering over Paris.

“What the hell kind of student can see the Eiffel Tower from their apartment?” He muttered to himself, traipsing through the living room with moonlight glinting on kitchen utensils and the softly humming fridge. 

He’d gone to the bathroom and worked some of Enjolras’s toothpaste round his abused mouth by the time his host returned with a blanket slung over his shoulder. It had made Grantaire jump to see Enjolras reflected in the bathroom mirror as he’d stood in the doorway. He’d been examining the line of products on the shelf, and trying very hard to push the image of Enjolras using them in the morning from his mind. An Enjolras fresh from the shower, a towel slung on his hips and tiredness still in his eyes; slick wet curls dripping down his arching neck.

“Here.” The blanket was held out to him, and he hoped he didn’t look as flustered as he felt as he accepted it. 

And then Enjolras turned away and that grating feeling of unsure regret and sorrow sunk against him as he followed him out of the bathroom, and then was unceremoniously split as Enjolras headed to his room without another word, and Grantaire to the clean little sofa pushed up against the back of a kitchen counter, after he’d watched Enjolras’s door close and he’d hit out the lights.

“Goodnight, Apollo.” He murmured to the night air.

The thing about cities that Grantaire loved, he reflected, as he absentmindedly traced his fingers over the patterns on the blanket that still somehow felt warm from Enjolras’s touch, was how they were never quiet. One of the windows was ajar, and the steady stream of ever flowing traffic drifted up to his ears. Somewhere, a plane was flying low, and the fridge hummed and the TV set crackled now and then. And his heart beat loud in his ears as he stared with open eyes at Enjolras’s apartment, both exhausted and not wanting to sleep at all. Because he wanted to remember this forever, to feel this blanket over him forever and to not miss a single moment he spent in this segment of Enjolras’s private little world, characterless yet at the same time undoubtedly his.

But in the end, he fell asleep anyway. 

And the nightmares were still there, waiting for him.


	2. We ate well and cheaply and drank well and cheaply

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which amid the consumption of fajitas and coffee, tensions begin to rise. And Grantaire hates towels.

The streams of sunlight and the soft white blanket still curled around Grantaire’s crumpled clothes felt something akin to waking up in heaven when his groggy eyes opened the next morning.

He sat up with a slow groan, his eyes heavy as if he could feel the dark shadows beneath them pounding along with the headache in his skull. He matted his hands through his tangled hair, grimacing at that all too familiar feeling of woozy drunkenness after a night of restless sleep.

He felt at odds with the apartment now; a dirty thing stinking of stale tobacco, sweat and alcohol perched in a clean, fresh apartment that let early morning Paris be seen through the long white curtains, that hadn’t been drawn the previous night.

He yawned wildly, stretching his hands above his head and trying to blink the haze of last night away.

And at that moment Enjolras opened the bathroom door. And Grantaire promptly forgot his hands were waving above his head. Because Enjolras was half naked and there wasn’t time to think about what his own anatomy was doing.

It was like the Enjolras he had conjured in his head last night had stepped into reality. His blond curls were damp, the colour of honey, despite having been clearly scuffed up by a towel. The towel that was now round his torso; dangerously low on his hipbones, the lines of his abdominal muscles carved and smooth; a thin line down the centre of his chest that Grantaire suddenly found himself wanting to follow from top to bottom with his tongue. Oh god.

He was abruptly very conscious of the warm sensation that was rapidly collecting in his lap.

“You look ill.” Enjolras said by way of greeting. 

The strangled croak Grantaire gave in response wasn’t quite the attempt at casualness he had been hoping for. He did a double check that the blanket was safely covering the lower half of his body, half fervently wishing he was still asleep, and half fervently wishing that damned towel would slip to the hardwood floor.

Describing the brief stretch of silence -as Enjolras stood in the doorway, _dripping_ , and Grantaire stared at him open mouthed and tried to remember how to talk- as incredibly uncomfortable didn’t seem to quite cover it. 

“You’re going to have make a move,” Enjolras was saying as Grantaire took a few steadying breaths as subtly as he could and hoped his face wasn’t scarlet, “I have a lecture in half an hour, and I spend enough on food without you eating it all.”

Grantaire tried to force a sentence out of his lust-heavy brain, that had been somewhat waylaid further by Enjolras’s unfortunate choice of the words ‘make a move.’

“Your food is disgusting anyway.” He finally croaked, “All that low fat, fair-trade organic stuff.”

Enjolras looked like he had to summon the strength to ignore that particular comment, and Grantaire took the advantage of his distraction to check him out once again. It was a stupid idea that did little to improve how very uncomfortable his jeans were but _wow_ if this was masochism, it was the best kind. 

Enjolras’s eyes were back on him too quick for him to pretend he hadn’t been staring at his chest, and he mentally cursed himself.

“Please say you’re showering before you go.” Enjolras said after a moment, moving off towards the kitchen, plucking up the kettle and filling it up from under the tap. Grantaire was treated to a three hundred and sixty degree look at Enjolras in a towel, which made him think that while maybe there was a god after all, there was also _definitely_ a devil.

“Uhh.” He said, then realised that sounded a little too drawn out and hoarse to be remotely casual, and he hurriedly assumed a smirk, “Why?” 

“You stink.” Enjolras replied instantly, not looking at him as he set the kettle back on its stand and flicked the on switch, “And there’s still paint in your hair.”

“I’m an art student, of course I stink. It’s practice for when I can’t pay my water bills.”

Enjolras sighed heavily, reaching up to get two mugs out a cupboard, two mugs, and Grantaire felt like his body might just tear itself apart because his heart was panging, and he was fairly sure he’d never felt this turned on in his whole life.

“I need a shower.” He all but shouted. 

He couldn’t bear to look at Enjolras again as leapt off the sofa, the blanket flying off him as he dashed into the bathroom, hoping he’d moved fast enough to disguise the fact that really, his lower body movements were just a little restricted. 

Slamming the door behind him, smashing the lock into place, he hauled his t-shirt up over his head and clambered out of his jeans as quickly as he could, his teeth grinding on his lower lip.

All but throwing himself into the shower he pushed his palms up against the cold tiles; still slippery from water, water Enjolras had showered in and no, he couldn’t think about that.

He shoved the dial back on the shower, as cold as it would go; letting the water pelt off his skin as he stood there; his shoulders shivering but the rest of him flaring warm and his heart hammering to every inch of his body. Every inch. It didn’t help that the scent of Enjolras’s shampoo was still thick in the air; clinging to his senses and suffocating him under an unbearable wave of longing. 

And _fuck_ , he was going to smell like him all day.

When he finally clambered out of that shower, weak and freezing and smelling of Enjolras his mind was only slightly clearer; fogged again by the towel he borrowed. Back in his own crumpled clothes that smelt of him, of cigarettes and drink and paint, that made him feel better. And infinitely worse.

Enjolras wasn’t in the kitchen when he came back out; and he instead fixed his gaze on the two cups of coffee perched on the counter; one half empty, the other full. Seating himself at one of the barstools with a sigh, he wished he could say he didn’t skim his fingertips along the lip of that half empty coffee mug. 

That instant, lukewarm coffee was the best he’d ever tasted.

He jumped when the door to Enjolras’s room opened and he appeared before him, now fully clothed in a plaid red shirt and close fitting black jeans. Grantaire found himself mourning the towel.

“You decided on clothes in the end then?” He commented over the top of the coffee mug, perhaps not sounding as flippant as he would have preferred. He had the horrible sensation, as Enjolras rolled his eyes and went to collect his car keys from the sideboard by the door, that maybe he had noticed it too.

“Hurry up.” He said, flicking a glance to where Grantaire was lounging on the bar stool, “I need to get going. I can drop you off at your place, if you like.”

“And help you pollute the environment all the further?” Grantaire asked with mock outrage, “I couldn’t possibly accept!”

“Then get out my flat.”

“Okay, okay. Give me a second.”

Despite that cold, impatient god tapping his car keys against his slender fingers as he stood by the front door, Grantaire took his time finishing that cup of cold coffee, committing its scent to memory as he had committed this flat and that image of a shower fresh Enjolras to the recesses of his recollections to torture and intoxicate his mind when he would find himself alone.

He left the mug on the counter, pressed up against the other, the dull chink it made indescribably satisfying. 

* * *

The March sun hadn’t lasted.

It retreated behind overcast clouds and that morning it was raining again, which, as Jehan so often pointed out, made Paris just as beautiful. Even if she looked a little sad as the signs for the metro glistened and dripped and the rain pooled in shallow rivers along the pavements and flooded the Square du Vert-Galant; Notre Dame a misty haze behind it. 

On these kinds of days Combeferre’s caffeine cravings were satisfied, as in between lectures the group would orbit around the café where Courfeyrac worked on weekends and Monday and Friday afternoons. There the rain could fall all it wanted on the streets of Paris; as they sat cosily on the low armchairs and stools with misted French windows blurring the sight of passing cars and umbrellas. Combeferre had no qualms with this location at all. Firstly, because the proximity to his lecture room made it possible for him to grab a drink to go and still have it warm ten minutes into his microeconomic theory lecture. Which was vital. And secondly, when the pile of work he would set out before him on one of those spindly tables grew too large, Courfeyrac would sneak him on the house lattes and mochas. Combeferre would always leave the money for them, but he appreciated the gesture.

Today was the type of day when they were particularly appreciated, as he sat being assaulted by vocation language skills and econometrics, which was not something he wished to be faced with on a Friday afternoon when he was still sleep deprived and aching from last night. He’d stayed at the Musain far later than he would have preferred, feeling duty bound to fulfil his promise to drive Joly, Bossuet and Feuilly home. He’d have been home by two if it hadn’t been for Courfeyrac inveigling his way into his car as well, and at that point Combeferre had sacrificed himself to the acknowledgment that he would be laden with taking all of his friends home in his beat up Ford Fiesta. He’d vainly regretted suggesting Enjolras take Grantaire back, particularly when Courfeyrac showed no signs of being moved until the Musain’s four o’clock closing time, having met a group of rather attractive tourists and proceeding to flirt with them shamelessly. 

He noted with mild irritation that the late night had had little visible effect on the dark haired man as he headed over to Combeferre’s table with a mocha in his hands.

“Extra chocolate syrup in there.” He announced with a grin, setting it down on top of _Mostly Harmless Econometrics: An Empiricist’s Companion._ “Because you look half dead. On the house.”

With the memory still on hand that he hadn’t got to bed until five in the morning, Combeferre decided that he may take him up on that just for once.

“Have you heard from Enjolras today?” He asked, reaching far too hastily through the barrier of textbooks for the drink, “I’m guessing he got Grantaire back last night without throwing him out the car for one reason or another.” 

“I’d be surprised if he did.” Courfeyrac grinned, dropping into the seat across from Combeferre, taking the tea towel flung across his shoulder back into his hands, “Grantaire probably professed his love for CO2 emissions and Enjolras threw him into the Seine.”

They both gave short laughs. But they both knew there was no other way that Grantaire could have gotten home safer. 

Comebeferre, looking at Courfeyrac over the top of his notes, got the distinct impression Courfeyrac hadn’t risked the displeasure of his boss to come over for an idle conversation about the somewhat turbulent amity of Enjolras and Grantaire. He was busy twisting the tea towel around his long fingers; teeth gnawing down on his lip as if he were trying to phrase something plaguing his mind.

“What’s up?” Combeferre asked, hoping he wasn’t going to regret it. Econometrics, fine. The bigger workings of France and the world, fine. But ask him for advice on a personal crisis and he was less sure. It wasn’t that he couldn’t help, or that he wouldn’t, but the smaller everyday matters he found himself less well versed in. Where to him, things were less black and white and where statistics couldn’t help him. 

“Well,” Courfeyrac began slowly, drawing the word out and Combeferre decided to dive at the mocha in case he needed to think about a response. “It’s Jehan. I think he’s a little pissed off at me, and I can’t work out why.”

Combeferre realised two minutes later that he’d probably been holding the cup to his mouth a little too long. Courfeyrac was starting to look concerned. 

“Urm. How come?” He finally said, this having been the last thing he’d expected to hear about. He’d been all too ready for another graphically detailed account of Courfeyrac’s most recent romantic exploits. He now felt rather relieved.

“Well, he didn’t say anything per se,” Courfeyrac mused, leaning back in his chair, still plucking at the tea towel, “But he was out in the street earlier with Joly and Bossuet, and he took one look at me on the other side of the glass and kind of scarpered. Maybe it was cos I teased him about having a mojito? I like them really. Spain is a great country. Hot people everywhere.”

“They’re Cuban.” Combeferre informed him, “Maybe Joly was just scaring him with that tetnis story again?”

“Maybe. I guess I’m just feeling paranoid.” 

Courfeyrac didn’t look terribly convinced, and Combeferre hoped he looked relatively nonchalant as he went in for another sip of mocha. To tell the truth, he’d been watching Jehan and Courfeyrac in the park yesterday, and there had definitely been a pattern to Jehan’s apparently unsystematic blushing. He didn’t dare bring that up with Courfeyrac just yet though. 

He was saved by his phone buzzing on the table.

“Marius?” Courfeyrac guessed with a smirk, as Combeferre read the new text and sighed, “That kid needs to screw his head on better. I’d turn that into an innuendo about screwing, but I don’t want to think about that would do to him.”

Combeferre was rather glad Courfeyrac’s supervisor came over then to chide him back into serving tables. 

* * *

They were always a bit lost when Courfeyrac’s shift finished at six, because it meant that they’d spent the entire afternoon at that café and were still moderately buzzing from too much caffeine, and had nowhere else to go. 

Enjolras and Marius were the only two not there when they piled out the café; hoods coming up over hair to ward off the rain that had been falling all day; Marius either lost down a side street or having one of his hideously late law lectures, and Enjolras no doubt because he was trying to read the entire contents of the national library before the year was out.

“We’re doing fajitas tonight if you guys want to come round.” Bossuet said as he opened his umbrella, knocking it against a lamppost in his haste to hold it over Joly’s head, “Though bring your own tortillas for all that is holy, Courfeyrac. I swear last time you ate twelve.”

“I’d worked up an appetite, if you must know.” Courfeyrac smirked back, swinging his jacket over his head and, after what seemed to be a moment’s deliberation, enfolded Jehan’s bare hair under it as well. 

Jehan went the colour of the traffic lights that were holding up rush hour. 

They wound their way back along the rain soaked streets, Combeferre having left his car at home, a decision he now regretted as he felt his shoes growing soggier from the water pounding on the grey pavements, only pausing to collect the tortillas from the supermarket just over the way from the apartment where Joly, Bossuet and Jehan all lived. 

Grantaire, who had seemed a little subdued all day, brightened up considerably with the addition of a bottle of vodka and three cans of beer to his bag.

The small apartment where the three students lived was exceedingly welcomed when they all piled into it five minutes later; cold and wet and hungry.

The apartment itself was the best that three students could get in the heart of a city; which was to say, not that wonderful. The layout had been mocked mercilessly, because barely two people could fit in the open plan kitchen; barricaded by walls and counters, and the two windows that were the only sources of light in that main living room were small and dingy. But there was something about it; with the vases of pansies and violets littered on false wooden tables, and the collage of photographs plastered to the fridge, and heaps of textbooks and sheets of paper with poems Jehan had scrawled on them in fountain pen that made it a haven as rain dribbled down the single paned glass; steaming those tiny second floor windows. 

As Joly’s much mocked rule about taking shoes off at the door still held, there was initially a fair amount of grumpiness as they tried to cluster wet feet round the only form of warmth that came from the beat up heater next to the sofa. Grantaire made no such attempt, but instead flopped down onto the sofa covered in multi-coloured blankets and unscrewed the vodka bottle, and made no endeavour to help as Combeferre was enlisted to slice up peppers with Feuilly and Joly. Which was probably for the best, Combeferre thought, as the conté under Grantaire’s fingernails would no doubt have caused him to join Bossuet in being banned from cooking indefinitely. 

A series of muffled knocks on the door issued as the sound of frying chicken filled the small open plan kitchen, and Bossuet ran to get it, tripping up over cast aside shoes and the edge of a rug as he did so.

A very soggy and dishevelled Marius stood in the doorway; the sleeves of yet another jumper so wet it stretched well over his hands, which explained the stifled knocking. By his side stood Eponine, who was casting rather smug looks at Marius’s dripping head. 

“It looks like you were eaten by Fair Isle patterning, roomie.” Courfeyrac said by way of greeting; his feet resting on the vents of the heater as he perched on the sofa arm.

“Do you want to borrow something, Marius?” Joly asked him, shooting him concerned looks from his position by the cooker, “You look wet through.”

“Jehan has an endless supply of jumpers if you’re worried your body will disintegrate without them.” Grantaire put in, around a swig of alcohol.

“That would be good,” Marius said, seeming to have not heard Grantaire’s comment, perhaps because his teeth were starting to chatter.

“Don’t mind me.” Eponine smirked, shrugging off her parka and shaking out her wet hair as Jehan led Marius towards his room, “I’m fine with a little bit of rain. _Really._ ” 

With piled up tortillas steaming next to bottles of beer and chipped china bowls piled high with fajita fillings on the low coffee table, the migration from the kitchen to the living room was rather rapid. Marius had reappeared, tousled and clad in one of Jehan’s too big jumpers, and Joly and Courfeyrac were fighting over possession of the heater. Eponine had settled on Grantaire’s legs when he had refused to move. Bahorel was guarding his plate, looking rather like a bouncer whenever someone came too near the sour cream. 

Owing to the combination that there were ten of them, and they were students, the pile of food went down alarmingly quickly, so that by the time someone knocked on the door again; this time loud, clear and self-assured, the supply of fajitas was in a rather woeful, and essentially non-existent state. 

Enjolras wasn’t bedraggled and wet; he looked as if somehow the rain hadn’t dared to fall on him. The only evidence of the weather outside was the black umbrella he carefully laid against the wall as he stepped into the apartment. 

“I got a message from Courf saying something about Mexican food.” He said, looking at the demolished bowls and quirking an amused eyebrow.

“You stayed too long with those wonderful books of yours.” Courfeyrac told him through a mouthful of peppers and chicken. “I felt it was my duty to eat everything.”

“And drop half of it down your front.” Feuilly added, pointing at his t-shirt.

“Shut up. It’s the mark of appreciation of good cooking, I’ll have you know.”

“It’s all gone then?” Enjolras asked, wrestling the point back.

“Have mine.” Grantaire said, still trapped underneath Eponine as he held the uneaten fajita slapped on his plate out across to Enjolras, “I’m not hungry.”

Combeferre watched with mild interest as Enjolras looked torn between not really wanting to accept the food Grantaire had been touching, and wanting to fuel himself to what was probably going to be an evening spent studying.

“Have you washed your hands?” He finally asked. Grantaire rolled his eyes, taking a swig of beer with the hand not holding the plate out.

“Don’t be a dick, just take the fucking fajita.”

The rest of them watched on with the usual mild amusement and exasperation as Enjolras sighed and accepted the plate Grantaire had begun waving rather dangerously up and down in the air. Combeferre wondered what recent disagreement they’d had that meant Grantaire wasn’t meeting Enjolras’s eye. 

“Who drank out my glass?” Joly’s voice broke into the sudden, rather uncomfortable silence.

* * *

They decided it was probably time to head home when Grantaire’s reflections on there being no point in recycling grew louder and more insistent, and Enjolras’s retorts became snappier and less patient. There was something in their dynamic that had shifted, Jehan thought, as he sunk into the sofa Grantaire had just been forced to vacate by Combeferre. At least, on Grantaire’s side. Enjolras seemed to run on two emotions with Grantaire; frustrated, and _really_ frustrated. It was a shame, because Jehan had seen that dark look in Grantaire’s eyes that would focus only on Enjolras; a look Jehan felt perhaps he mildly understood. There seemed to be an awful lot of pent up feelings going around lately. 

He fiddled with his socks as his friends left; jackets arming them against the downpour still lashing at their window. He was fervently glad he was remaining inside; their apartment had warmed up nicely with eight extra people crammed into it, even if Joly had essentially been sitting on the heater. 

He’d been reaching for one of his poetry books that had been shoved on a cushion during the fajitas, Joly and Bossuet busy clearing plates over by the sink and nudging one another’s hips affectionately, when a hand came lightly down on his shoulder.

“Budge up, amigo.” 

Jehan felt his face turn hot as Courfeyrac slid down onto the sofa beside him. It seemed not all their guests had left yet.

“You’re going to have to walk home alone.” Jehan said haltingly, gesturing unnecessarily towards the door, the sleeves of his jumper falling over his fingers as he did so. The stray thought entered his head that Marius probably looked better than he did in an oversized jumper. Sitting next to Courfeyrac now, their legs brushing, it suddenly seemed like it mattered.

“I’ll happily miss walking back with Enjolras and Grantaire. I’m assuming at least Combeferre will keep them from murdering each other. But it’s a half hour walk and I don’t think I can handle the angst.” 

Jehan smiled slightly, his gaze dropping to his hands as Courfeyrac looked back at him, that easy grin on his face.

“Hey, are we ok?” Courfeyrac asked, seeming to pluck the topic from mid-air, “Only I thought I’d annoyed you last night. I did probably drink a bit too much, so if I insulted you-”

“We’re fine!” Jehan exclaimed, perhaps a little too hastily, and felt his ears growing hot, “I mean, there’s nothing wrong. I just don’t like this weather, and I’ve got so much work and deadlines at the moment so…urm…yeah?” 

Courfeyrac waited patiently for his stumbling speech to finish, an arm swung up over the sofa; his fingers so near Jehan’s hair he just wanted to lean in and see how they would feel on the back of his neck, wrapped around his arms or- 

“Fair enough.” Courfeyrac finally said, and there was no trace of doubt in his warm, brown eyes as he smiled at Jehan, “Combeferre said I was being paranoid. What’s that you’re reading?”

Jehan, surprised at the ease with which Courfeyrac could turn the conversation, was still reeling from the comment that meant Courfeyrac had actually talked to Combeferre about him, and he was so caught up in loathing himself for being so transparent, and feeling a rush of pleasure that Courfeyrac had actually noticed. As a result, he had no idea what it was he was reading, and simply said he first poet that came to mind,

“Keats?”

Courfeyrac seemed to consider this a moment,

“You know, we don’t hang out as much as I’d like, you and I.” He said, his smile growing,

“We don’t?” Jehan was proud his voice didn’t betray his stammering heart.

“Nope. We should go and do something, just us two. Go to one of your arty poetry readings or something.”

That was the time to say something, Jehan’s mind sputtered, to say how he wanted to be so much more than a person he ate fajitas with on Friday night. How he was happy to wear his heart on his too long sleeves, but was so afraid of what the person he’d given it to might do to it. How none of this made sense to him; indecipherable, scrawling writing on a scrunched up page. 

And then Bossuet dropped the bowl he had been drying up and the words flew back into the recesses of Jehan’s heart.

“And on that note,” Courfeyrac murmured, glancing over his shoulder at Bossuet swearing colourfully as he clambered to his feet. Jehan’s leg felt suddenly cold without his weight against it, “I should probably head off before the rain gets worse.”

“You can crash here if you like, Courf.” Bossuet told him amid apologies to Joly, who seemed more concerned with checking nobody had cut themselves, “It looks pretty brutal out there.”

“And you’ll get pneumonia if you’re walking all the way back to yours in a downpour.” Joly added from the floor as he began to sweep up the broken china. 

Nobody had noticed that Jehan was sitting bolt upright, his face scarlet and his hands scrunched up tightly inside his jumper, seeming completely lost that this situation had come about; his mind hurtling at the prospect.

“That would be great!” Courfeyrac beamed, seeming relieved, “You’re quite right, Joly, I probably would die. Anyone up for a film? Have they made a _Midnight in Paris_ sequel yet, Jehan?”

As he bustled off to check out their rather woeful DVD collection, Jehan grabbed the nearest pillow and buried it into his face. 

* * *

It rained itself out during the course of the night; and when morning dawned in Paris the sky was still cloudy, but the grey had washed into blue like the watercolours Grantaire would use when he was in one of his better moods.

Combeferre had been for a run that morning; the grass wet round along the pathways of the Jardin des Plantes; the sun tentatively falling on slowly opening flowers now and then. He’d been a little put out that Bahorel had elected to join him, simply because when it came to exercise, Bahorel was a machine. He’d jogged like a soldier several paces ahead of him the whole way, as if he was used to training for something that would need him to run very fast. Which he probably was. 

Now, after a shower, Combeferre had been dragged along to one of the cafés along the Quai d’Orléans, the Seine dark below the overcast sky. He’d been summoned by a text from Grantaire, who always seemed to know the best places to get a hot drink; which was surprising as Combeferre had only seen him actually drink something non-alcoholic twice in his life. But as coffee was always something Combeferre was rather partial too, he’d allowed himself to be mildly distracted from a day of essay planning, and picked his way through the late morning traffic, over the bridges adorned with lovers’ padlocks to the café Grantaire had told him to head to.

He literally ran into Eponine as he went to cross the road.

“Watch it, moron.” Was her way of greeting, adjusting the Breton cap pulled at an angle over her dark hair,

“Sorry.” He said, taking a step back, “Are you getting a drink with us?” 

“Nope. I’m meeting a questionably shady individual.” She smirked, digging her hands into her pockets, “But another time? Only if someone else is buying though.” 

Combeferre was about to reply when she dragged a hand out her coat to wave her fingers at a figure over Combeferre’s shoulder. He turned to look at the person she had beckoned, and was faced with someone he would certainly describe as a _definitely_ shady individual.

He was dressed entirely in black, and dressed well. A darkly patterned scarf looped round his neck; fanning out over a black leather jacket, and Combeferre was fairly sure he was wearing eyeliner. He was also holding a rose between his teeth. Combeferre might have been amused, but there was a rather alarming look in the man’s eyes; as if he wouldn’t really mind it if he suddenly had to gun down everyone in the vicinity. 

“Good morning.” He said in tones slightly husky from cigarettes when he reached them. A flash of a grin showed bared teeth as he took the rose from his mouth,

“A flower for a beautiful maiden.” He smirked, reaching over to hold it out to Eponine. He shoved past Combeferre as he did so and muttered, “Not you, mate.”

“I’m…quite glad to hear it?”

“Pity Jehan isn’t here,” Eponine mused, the smirk still on her face as she looped an arm around the new arrival’s shoulders. “He’s a beautiful maiden. This is Montparnasse, by the way, Combeferre. He likes to steal flowers and beat up people down dark alleys.”

“Pleasure to have you acquaintance.” Montparnasse said with a toothy grin the rather dead look in his eyes didn’t _quite_ agree with. 

“I’m getting coffee now.” Combeferre blurted.

“So are we,” Montparnasse said, his attention shifting decidedly to Eponine, “There’s a vendor just down the street who doesn’t look at back pocket as often as he should. People are so trusting sometimes.”

Combeferre decided Montparnasse definitely wasn’t joking as he led Eponine away, one arm draped over her shoulder. He just caught the tail end of their new conversation, before they were swallowed into the crowd,

“So, how dashing do I look in this jacket?”

For a moment, Combeferre was a little too disturbed to move, until a passing tourist shoved past him and he was geared back into his mission for coffee. He’d heard Marius mentioning that Eponine’s other friends were a _little_ dubious, but he hadn’t quite expected subtly violent and criminal youths wielding flowers.

The rich smell of coffee beans revived him a little as he opened the door to the café; the huge glass windows painted with lettering and prices shielding him from the cold March air. 

Grantaire was sitting with Feuilly and Bahorel at the far end of the gently buzzing room; in the corner by the windows on the wicker chairs that would be hauled out into the street come spring. All three were laden with huge cups of frothy drinks. They hadn’t told Feuilly there was foam on his nose. 

“You’re looking a little tired, Combeferre.” Bahorel grinned toothily when he joined them, “Exerted yourself a little this morning, did we?”

“Not all of us are built to be Vikings.” Combeferre told him, sinking into a free chair and trying not to pout.

“He’s way too skinny to be a Viking.” Grantaire cut in, stirring his coffee absent-mindedly. Combeferre was momentarily distracted by how completely exhausted he looked. The shadows under his eyes were like bruises.

“Who are you calling skinny?” Bahorel shot at him, the amused look in his dark eyes not matching his challenging tone. “I could leave you in the gutter.”

“Normally it only takes myself to put me in a gutter.”

“Speaking of gutters.” Combeferre murmured, fiddling with the salt shaker in front of him, “Have you guys met Montparnasse? Eponine’s friend?”

“Oh yeah.” Bahorel said with an airy wave of his hand, “He’s unsettling. Weedy, but unsettling.”

“He’s definitely weedy.” Grantaire snorted, and Combeferre didn’t think they were talking about physical appearances anymore. He cast his friend a pityingly exasperated look. 

“I don’t like him hanging out with Eponine.” Combeferre decided, “I’m pretty sure he just suggested they go steal from a vendor down the street.”

“’Ponine is pretty streetwise.” Bahorel told him, lounging back in his chair, “She seems to be able to handle herself fine. I wouldn’t worry.”

“If she were Marius it would be another matter.” Grantaire sniggered, inspired as the boy entered the café at that moment, “But she’s a badass.” 

Combeferre wasn’t particularly comforted at their words, but he let the matter drop as Marius joined their table; only a few minutes in front of Jehan and Courfeyrac. Combeferre had received one of Courfeyrac’s texts the previous night -his typical type with a bombardment of kisses and smileys at the end- after leaving Joly, Bossuet and Jehan’s that told him he was sleeping round there. Combeferre had put it down to the fact that Enjolras and Grantaire had been all but at each other’s throats, but looking now at the relaxed set of Jehan’s shoulder’s, and the easy smile on his face, Combeferre guessed it was for other reasons. He smiled to himself. 

“Joly thinks he has the flu coming on.” Courfeyrac announced as he flopped into the nearest vacant seat, “So he’s in bed today. But if you ask me it’s just an excuse for Bossuet to nurse him back to health. I like the froth on your nose, Feuilly. _Adorable_.” 

“Are we doing anything today except for upping our caffeine intake?” Bahorel asked, running a hand through his dark hair as Feuilly rubbed the offending dollop of foam from his nose, muttering. 

“We’re all clever enough to not be doing anything with our Saturdays.” Grantaire said, with a smile that suddenly struck Combeferre as rather strained, “Unless you’re Enjolras, and I can’t say I really want to watch him throttle his debate class later today.”

Combeferre unintentionally caught Bahorel’s eye and was met with a sceptically raised eyebrow. As if he were willing to challenge Grantaire and argue that watching Enjolras in a debate class was exactly what he wanted to do. Combeferre decided it was time for a rash change of subject, but as he was busy casting about for something to distract them with, Jehan had looked over his shoulder and saw the person who had just shoved the café door open again. 

“Enjolras!” He beamed, raising a hand stained with illegible writing to wave him over.

“Have you ever considered how much custom we give to coffee houses?” Bahorel mused as Enjolras began to pick his way over; his cheeks pink from the cold; the collar of his thick black jacket turned up,

“Marius,” Enjolras said the minute he reached their table, “You said you were waiting on the Pont de l’Archevêché.” 

“Oh.” Marius said, his eyes widening, “I forgot! I’m sorry!”

The muscle in Enjolras’s jaw tightened slightly, but he appeared to not want to pursue the matter.

“Marius probably felt those sparrow were laughing at him again,” Courfeyrac sniggered, “Do you remember that, Marius? I don’t know how much you’d had to drink, but I’ve never laughed so much in my life.”

But Marius didn’t respond to Courfeyrac’s nudging elbow. His gaze was instead fixed on something just behind Combeferre; his eyes were round, and his mouth was slightly open in astonishment as a deep blush began to steal across his freckled face.

Flicking a curious glance over his shoulder as the rest of his friends headed towards the counter to order drinks, Combeferre caught a brief glance of a blonde-haired girl just inside his periphery vision, whose gaze was fixed on the book before her. But her pink cheeks seemed to hint she’d noticed Marius’s rather unreserved expression. 

He looked back to Marius, who hadn’t moved an inch and was still wearing the expression of having been hit by a thunderbolt. 

Combeferre’s following of this rather interesting turn of events was blocked by Courfeyrac returning to his seat; a hot chocolate in his hands after having professed being around coffee for too long. 

“-I mean I’m not telling you it wasn’t a nice thing to wake up to, Jehan,” He was saying with a smirk as he began pouring the liquid chocolate into his cup of milk, “I’m just commenting on the unexpectedness.” 

“What happened?” Combeferre asked, momentarily side-tracked, though he carried on looking with borderline amusement at Marius’s awestruck face.

“I was sleeping on the sofa, and woke up to the breath-taking sight of Jehan half-naked.”

“The top half.” Jehan put in hurriedly, going scarlet.

“The top half indeed.” Courfeyrac echoed, a rather suggestive grin lighting his face.

“The old ‘I just had a shower, really, but look at my abs’, huh?” Grantaire called from the counter. Combeferre caught the dirty look Enjolras sent the art student. 

“I was looking for my jumpers!” Jehan said quickly, an earnestly defensive note in his voice, “They were all on the laundry stand.”

“Good old laundry stand.” Courfeyrac mused, stirring his hot chocolate. 

Marius suddenly jogged the table in his haste to stand up, then stopped halfway, courage apparently lost. Combeferre felt his teeth bite down on his lip in an effort to keep from laughing.

“Not cool.” Courfeyrac told Marius, apparently oblivious to the thing that had claimed his friend’s attention as he began to blot at the hot chocolate that had slopped all over the table. 

Combeferre had to go and get his overdue macchiato at that moment, because he couldn’t hide his shaking shoulders any longer.

Enjolras and Grantaire were still at the counter, Enjolras returning a wallet to his coat pocket, his gaze fixed furiously on the art student as their heated discussion escalated. Combeferre had the distinct impression he’d just picked the greater of two evils.

“-I don’t know where this is coming from, Grantaire.” Enjolras was saying, as Combeferre loudly told the barista his order in the hopes that his presence would divert the hostility, “What’s wrong with you?” 

“I’m just _fine_.” Grantaire told him with a bitter smile, rubbing his tired eyes, “I’ve never been better. You enjoy your organic soy latte or whatever healthy, life-saving crap it is you’re chucking in your system.” 

He pulled away before Enjolras could retort, heading back to their table, gathering his bag into his arms, making his excuses before heading out the door onto the street.

Enjolras turned his gaze to Combeferre who was waiting as nonchalantly as possible for his macchiato.

“I don’t understand Grantaire.” Enjolras finally said, his tones grating. 

“I think that’s a mutual thing,” Combeferre said lightly, plucking a wooden stirrer from amongst its companions, “I sometimes feel you two might be better off at other ends of the planet.”

Enjolras made a soft noise of agreement, a look of consternation lowering his brow as his drink was handed to him (which, regrettably, was an organic soy latte) and he moved off to his abandoned chair. Combeferre shook his head after him.

When he finally re-joined them a few minutes later, the girl that had managed to transform Marius’s face to one of pure idiocy had stood up, crossed the room and was now standing by their table. Marius had leapt from his chair. All the way up this time. Combeferre was momentarily disappointed he’d missed the initial moment when she’d decided to take matter into her own hands, but was perfectly happy to watch them both trading numbers; their phones in one another’s hands as they both blushed furiously.

“I think I’m going to be sick from the cute.” He heard Bahorel mutter. 

As he sat there, he took in his group of friends; Jehan sending sidelong looks to Courfeyrac as he scrawled indecipherable, looping words on a napkin; Feuilly checking his face for foam every time he took a sip of his drink; Bahorel cracking his knuckles habitually; Enjolras scowling at the door through with Grantaire had left, his organic soy latte cradled between his fingers; Marius still scarlet as the girl chatted animatedly to him; and Courfeyrac, who was busy dipping his fingers into the small jug of melted chocolate he hadn’t enough milk to mix with, as he intensely regarded Marius and the girl’s tête-à-tête.

Taking all this in, Combeferre took a sip of his too-hot macchiato, and started to pity himself as the only sane member of this eccentric group of people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a bunch to everyone who's reading this! Hope you're all enjoying it!! :D  
> Also I was prompted to make [a map thing](http://icarus-drunk.tumblr.com/post/60561904926/ok-so-i-got-an-anon-asking-about-all-the-places-i) that shows some of the places I've used in this story- although consider it spoilery at this stage I suppose :P


	3. Nor the moonlight, nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The winds of change are blowing wild and free, and Enjolras feels he should probably move.

Grantaire wished he could make sense of the thoughts roiling in his mind.

Every fibre of his being knew what that constricting ache was, pummelling his body; panning out along his veins and flooding to every part of him. Because it came from his heart. And his heart didn’t really feel like his. Not since it had only seemed to beat for blond curling hair and grey eyes filled with veiled disgust.

And his heart couldn’t quite seem to find its regular, muted beat after staying at Enjolras’s. Which he knew was ridiculous. But, hell, so was most of his life, really.

When he’d been given time to think about things after he’d left that flat, he’d grown angry. Angry at himself mainly; furious he had to feel this way and furious he would never do anything to change that, because it was all he knew and certainly all he wanted. Well, not what he wanted, but there was an intoxication to it, that he felt in him stronger than any other substance he ruined his health with. He was addicted to Enjolras. An addiction he didn’t want to be cured from, if he even could be. And the more he thought about having slept in that apartment, and how much it had affected him and how little it had affected Enjolras, the more he felt that crippling, strangling hold on his heart. 

Maybe it wasn’t an addiction, he thought; the wind bitter on his tired skin as he trudged aimlessly along the riverbank with Notre Dame on his right shoulder. An addiction could be cured, but with Enjolras, he was tangled so tightly inside Grantaire’s heart perhaps he was part of him. A part he’d die without.

“Shit.” He murmured, and fumbled in his threadbare coat pocket for a cigarette. 

His movements were drawn and muted today, and he had the sneaking suspicion he was still a little drunk from the night before. 

He’d been awake until four o’clock in the morning; shivering in his cold apartment as he’d slowly diminished his beer supply. He’d been painting, which always seemed to go better in the dead of night when he was depressingly drunk. It happened a bit too often, he supposed.

He leant against the low stone wall separating him from the Seine, the vast, circular window of the south transept of Notre Dame dark before him in the half-hearted sun as he pressed the cigarette to his lips, his eyes idly watching the way he’d come; the passing crowds blotting the trees; and hedges just showing the tips of passing boats. 

Smoke clinging to his breath; unfurling about his curling hair, he didn’t try very hard not to think about the very person his brain conjured up a moment later. 

Enjolras’s cheeks had been whipped pink by the wind when he’d entered that café; his hair curling over the turned up collar of that thick black jacket. That should be banned, Grantaire now mused, breathing out the robust tang of smoke. Because he had never wanted to rip something off him more.

He forced himself to study something else; the clothes on passing pedestrians, the way the bare trees were slowly coming to life. His mind had to focus on something else, think of something else for just once. But he had never been very good at doing what was best for him. 

He threw a slight smile on his lips, hoping contentment might follow as he tried to force optimism into his feverish mind. But that optimism was hard. Like the optimism he could not summon, one he could not follow Enjolras in, with his views that the world had hope and could be fixed. People couldn’t be fixed, Grantaire knew that much, so how could seven billion of them alter anything? Justice and peace and equality. They were words he couldn’t slot into the world like Combeferre and Enjolras could. Like any of his friends could. He hated that, that inability to believe this jigsaw mess of a world could be put together any differently. Perhaps that was the intoxicating thing about Enjolras; the thing that bound him so tightly against his heart. Because he couldn’t understand him, but for some reason; he always felt fixed when he saw Enjolras and that look in his eyes. When the world made him furious. More than furious. Seething. Righteous indignation that stirred in his gut and flowed along his veins hotter than any flame. A conflagration, he was on fire. And Grantaire could see it in his eyes and felt like he was burning too. Like the sun had set him alight.

For Grantaire, he’d fallen in love faster than a flash of lightning striking from the heavens; a thing he didn’t believe in crashing down about him; crushing him, as if to say, ‘believe in something now?’ and with Enjolras, amidst the mess of the world they lived in, he _did_ believe in something. Something that didn’t make him believe things could be fixed, but gave a soothing, fleeting feeling in between the tangle of everything else that Enjolras made him feel. A fleeting feeling he supposed could be hope if he cared hard enough to look. 

He lost track of how long he sat there in the end; the Seine at his back and people around him; his brain spinning from alcohol and tobacco, and Enjolras.

***

Night gathered around Paris with shadowy hues that were never black in a city lit with traffic and streetlights. The sound of the iron wrought door to the apartment block swinging shut behind him was an indescribably comforting sound to Enjolras. He was tired. Exhausted, even, as if he’d finally let a fortnight’s worth of hard work and little sleep catch up with him. His feet seemed to drag as he headed up those stone steps; keys in his pocket jangling as he pulled them out with weary movements. His bed was the only thing on his mind now, and how it was only thirteen seconds away until he could crash down onto it, twelve, if the lock on the door was less stiff than usual.

The figure sprawled against the wall to his apartment was something he hadn’t factored into this equation.

It took him a moment to realise exactly who it was, as he halted three stairs from the landing; the darkness veiling both of them, not aiding him in identifying the man. But eventually he did.

Grantaire looked wasted. Or more wasted than normal. He was slumped against the wall; his long legs tangled out before him and his head lolling against the white plaster. Thirteen seconds became thirteen minutes.

“What are you doing?”

Grantaire, jumped slightly, his head snapping to meet Enjolras’s gaze. His fingers had jumped to the empty wine bottle beside him, which Enjolras let his eyes rest on, and he found himself trying to control his impatience. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire spoke his name as if it pained him, “Do I honestly look like a person who knows what he’s doing?”

Enjolras held his breath a moment, biting back the remarks he could make that he was sure wouldn’t help matters. Not with this warped thing that had been flowing between them recently; indecipherable as Jehan’s handwriting. 

“How drunk are you?” He finally asked, and his voice sounded more accusing than he had meant.

“I suppose you’re asking for an exact unit count?” Grantaire snorted, leaning forwards, his hands dragging over his fraying jeans, “I’m afraid I’m not as precise about those kinds of things as you are.”

“I know.” Enjolras said shortly, his temper beginning to fray. “But you need to go home. How long have you been sitting there?”

“I didn’t knock at the door.” Grantaire said quietly, and Enjolras was immediately and hopelessly lost. He shook his head, trying to even begin to understand the collapsed figure before him. He just wanted to sleep. 

“I’m dropping you back at yours.” He said after a moment’s deliberation, “I have to be up early tomorrow, and you’re not going to be cooperative at six in the morning.”

That was true, and they both knew it. But there was more to it than that. Having Grantaire sleep on his sofa had felt unusual; and whilst he sensed he missed most of what the other man felt; he’d definitely noticed that barbed hostility that had crept into Grantaire after Thursday night. He was clueless as to why, but he wasn’t eager to increase the distance between them by repeating himself.

Grantaire was still on the ground, gaping at him slightly.

“Get up.” Enjolras said, trying not to sound belligerent, and he climbed the last of the stairs to help haul Grantaire up by his slender arm. 

“Be gentle.” Grantaire told him, the ghost of his usual smirks folding into place. It seemed a little forced to Enjolras, though.

It took him a little while to guide Grantaire down the steps; his hand clenched on an arm that was shivering through a thin jacket. He bit his lip against commenting on his poor clothing choices. 

Once Grantaire was in his car, sinking down in the passenger seat, Enjolras felt a little more in control. He was tired and frustrated, but he turned the heating on and for some reason felt mild gratification when Grantaire’s shoulders relaxed and he stopped shaking. 

With hazy directions from Grantaire, Enjolras pulled up ten minutes later outside the building where Grantaire lived; a place Enjolras had never been in his life, even though Grantaire had lived there a year or so. 

Grantaire was unsteady on his feet as he clambered out the car, and Enjolras found himself wondering exactly how much he’d been drinking to get this bad. Or why he’d want to drink so much in the first place. 

“This way.” He said tiredly, grabbing Grantaire’s shoulders and turning him round to the shallow steps leading into the apartment block.

Grantaire’s flat, when they finally reached it, was about as terrible as Enjolras thought it was going to be.

It was a dingy studio on the third floor of an old apartment block just at the edge of the Latin Quarter. The lock on the door was broken. Grantaire put a tottering shoulder habitually against it to shove it open.

He left the lights off as he staggered into the room, and Enjolras trailed in after him, fumbling for the light switch that brought life to a bare bulb, looking about at the unfamiliar place that he instantly decided could only belong to Grantaire.

Discarded pizza boxes littered the room; stained with grease as they wilted next to beer cans and bottles scattered across the floor, next to haphazardly arranged jars of brushes and pots of watercolours. An easel was set up next to the far wall; litters of paper folded over it. 

Christmas decorations from three months ago were still blue tacked to his windows; windows that were single paned and did nothing to help the chilling draught that encompassed the studio apartment. His bed was a low mattress; a tangle of sheets pushed up against the wall; and there were colourful stains on the white plaster walls that looked like casualties from when he’d had a tie-dying phase last year, when anything white had been in mortal peril. 

“I’m trying to add colour to a grey world.” Enjolras remembered him saying with that cynic twist of his lips. 

He tried to control his expression as Grantaire collapsed onto a rather decrepit bean bag, appraising him with entertained eyes, 

“You don’t look quite as horrified as I was anticipating.” He smirked, his slightly crooked teeth glinting. “Perhaps you’re still waiting to find fungus and damp?” 

Enjolras thought it best not to reply. 

“Where do you keep your glasses?” He asked instead, keeping his coat on as he crossed towards the small imitation of a kitchen that consisted of a fridge, cooker, counter and sink, and a few cupboards in the corner of the room,

“Here and there.” Was the reply. 

Enjolras gritted his teeth as he looked around him for something that would vaguely resemble something to drink out of. Paintbrushes were piled in empty coffee mugs, left in a pile by the sink, and he tried to refrain from rolling his eyes as he finally found a cup devoid of any art materials. Only to find it held half-finished tea with a thick line of condensed milk swimming on its surface. 

“That’s my favourite mug.” Grantaire informed him conversationally from the bean bag, clearly watching Enjolras’s every movement. 

“That’s extremely unhygienic.” Was the only comment Enjolras could muster, the overpowering scent of rancid milk suddenly reeling over him. 

“I suppose that cup of tea _has_ been there a while.” Grantaire mused. Enjolras had to close his eyes for a moment.

“You’re out of washing up liquid.” He finally returned when he had assessed the situation. 

“Oh, just give it a rinse,” Grantaire’s voice was still amused, “It will be fine.”

Enjolras had a sudden mental image of Joly fainting at the suggestion, and determinedly chucked the brushes out of the nearest mug and filled it with water instead. 

“There. Drink that.” He commanded, crossing the turbulent floor space to deposit the mug into Grantaire’s hands. Grantaire pulled a face at him.

“I don’t need a babysitter, Enjolras.”

“You were collapsed outside my front door.” Enjolras reminded him, his voice tight as he watched Grantaire set the mug down defiantly. “And you need to eat something.”

He caught the vague murmur of ‘good luck with that’ before he crossed to the kitchen again, opening the fridge to assess what it contained that might sober Grantaire up somewhat. The answer was a half empty carton of milk, a block of cheese and a Tupperware of something he had the feeling should have been thrown out a few weeks ago. Wondering how it was possible for one flat to be such a disastrous place, Enjolras went to unrewardingly check the cupboards, feeling Grantaire’s eyes on the back of his head. 

“Do you not have any food here?” He finally asked despairingly, shutting the last cupboard and turning a frustrated look on Grantaire, who was sliding down the bean bag now; his shirt rucked up around his naval.

“There’s some stale Doritos by my bed.” He told him happily, “The cheapey versions though. Will they do?”

Enjolras hoped the look on his face would answer that question.

“You stay here.” He said, reaching to check his pockets for his wallet, “I’m going to buy some bread or something.”

“I’ll come.”

“No, you can sit here and think about what a death trap this place is. Don’t you ever clean anything?”

“I suppose not.” Grantaire said, sounding exceedingly uncaring as he lounged on the bean bag, tipping his head back as he tugged irritably at the neck of his shirt. Almost curiously, Enjolras’s eyes followed the movement; taking in the line of his neck that merged to the slope of his shoulder before disappearing under gently lined fabric.

He left without another word. 

When he came back with a random selection of things from the supermarket he’d found down the narrow street clustered high with buildings -and stuffed in his coat pockets, because he couldn’t accept a plastic bag- he found Grantaire had relocated himself from the bean bag and was now slumped against his mattress, hands working the holes in his jeans.

“My saviour returns.” He smirked when Enjolras shut the door behind him, “Did you bring me fair-trade granola bars, by any chance?”

Enjolras, who may have purchased items that ensured the best advantages to all involved in their production, didn’t appreciate the sarcasm. 

“Just eat this so I can leave without feeling you’re incapable of looking after yourself.” He said brusquely, chucking a chocolate bar at his lap.

“I would have thought that’s not a novel feeling.” Grantaire said idly, picking up the chocolate and threading the edges of the wrapper in his fingers pensively, not opening it. 

Enjolras flicked his gaze back to Grantaire’s face. There was something in his blue eyes, a shadow that Enjolras couldn’t understand, just like he couldn’t understand most of Grantaire. It frustrated him, because he couldn’t see how two people could be so different; how in this dingy, cluttered flat two minds could be so opposite and uncomprehending of one another. 

He’d sat down on the abandoned bean bag before he realised it, his dark jeans spread out before him as he pushed the mug of water towards Grantaire. It was odd, but he didn’t feel so tired anymore. 

“Do you ever wonder why we’re friends?” He asked before he could stop himself, studying the way Grantaire’s fingers were lightly tearing at the edges of the wrapping, playing with it lazily.

Grantaire snorted at that.

“Are we friends, though?” He asked, voice dripping with clear dubiousness. 

Enjolras lowered his brows and didn’t reply, didn’t see the look Grantaire snuck at him as he cast his gaze away. Because he knew they weren’t. Not like they were friends with the others. There was a silent rift between them, an edge of hostility that Enjolras would sometimes feel as dislike mingled underneath the frustration with the way Grantaire lived his life. An aggravation between them that would be too often made raw for friendship. 

“I need to go.” He said after a moment of silence broken only by the faint rustling of an unopened chocolate wrapper, and quiet breathing. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Wait.”

The voice was quiet as he got to his feet, so quiet he almost missed it. But he turned his gaze on Grantaire who was still crumpled next to his poor excuse for a bed, eyes now fixed on Enjolras with a new expression on his face. Equally unfathomable. 

“Can you stay?” He sounded like he had to force the words out; words that made his voice hitch slightly. “I mean, I’ll sleep on the floor. I know it’s a mess here, but I don’t...I mean…”

He trailed off, biting his lip, his gaze fixed on Enjolras, his eyes lit with something Enjolras interpreted as hope.

“I’m not going to stay with you, Grantaire.” He finally said.

Grantaire’s jaw flickered as he dropped his gaze, a smile hastily wavering onto his lips as he set the chocolate bar down.

“Ok.” He said.

But Enjolras was still standing there a few seconds later, the look on his face cold, his lips twisted in something near to scorning, but he hadn’t moved, and he didn’t know why.

“I have to be up at six tomorrow.” He heard himself say.

He couldn’t have said why those words escaped him, why his brain even drove him to accepting Grantaire’s offer to stay in a room that was certainly a hygiene issue, and with a drunken art student who smelt of cigarettes and wine and beer. But his phone was in his hand, and he was setting the alarm.

And when Grantaire looked up, his face unbelieving, it felt something like a good decision.

“Really, Apollo?” Grantaire finally said, “I didn’t mean it, I mean I did…but you don’t have to-”

“Just drink your water.” Enjolras said, the usual harshness sounding softer than normal as he evaluated the area where he was now going to be spending the next few hours. For the first time, he could thoroughly and utterly understand Joly’s insistence on sanitation. “Do you not have a heater in here?”

“Do you see a heater?” Grantaire’s voice wasn’t as scathing as normal, as if he couldn’t quite believe Enjolras was still in his apartment, and would be all night. “There’s a blanket over there. Or you can use the duvet. It’s clean, I promise.”

Enjolras heavily doubted that, and he didn’t move until Grantaire had reluctantly drained the mug of water and got to his feet, noticeably slightly more steady, much to his relief.

“Seriously, take the bed.” Grantaire told him, all traces of mockery suddenly gone, in a way that made Enjolras feel slightly uncertain, a feeling he hated, “It’s not much of an improvement on the ground anyway.”

Enjolras looked at the double mattress; the sheets even more crumpled from Grantaire leaning against them, and let out a deep breath.

“It’s a double bed, Grantaire. Just don’t be sick and we won’t have a problem.”

Grantaire looked like someone had just thrown the Eiffel Tower at his head. The silence stretched between them and Enjolras wondered if he’d said something wrong.

“I’m going to turn the light off,” Grantaire finally muttered and he hurried past Enjolras before he could catch the look on his face. Enjolras did spy a brief glimpse of the skin nearly obscured beneath that dark curling hair, and he could have sworn he was blushing.

But he shook that off as the bare light bulb went out and he trod the just memorized path to the low mattress, fully clothed, accidentally knocking over beer cans he’d forgotten about. He hoped Grantaire could hear the low sounds of annoyance he made.

He settled on the left side of the bed, furthest from the cold wall after unlacing his boots. The pillow under his head when he lay back smelt musky, tinges of the scent of tobacco veiling the soft fabric. The scent was Grantaire’s.

The mattress jogged as Grantaire clambered up next to him, his limbs shaky as he lowered himself slowly down, as if excessively conscious of Enjolras’s presence.

It felt odd, Enjolras thought, as a brief silence stretched between them, the room filled with streaks of grey moonlight and a soft haze of orange from the street lights outside. Odd to have a person next to him in bed; a weight he was conscious of; the ghost of an arm a centimetre away, the faint warmth of a body next to him. It was an unaccustomed sensation, and his mind was unsure of a response.

He shifted slightly, and his weight pressed against the food he’d left forgotten in his pocket; wrappers crunching in the silence. 

He heard a soft chuckle in the dark.

“That sounded like granola bars.” Grantaire’s voice said, muffled. 

Enjolras allowed himself a small smile at that, his gaze fixed on the dark ceiling above him as the sounds of traffic rushed in his ears, along with Grantaire’s rasping breathing beside him. His mind felt awake; the bone weary feeling of an hour or so ago no longer traceable, as if lying there in that bed had erased any thoughts of sleep. His blood was thumping in his ears, and he could still smell the beer on Grantaire, and perhaps the faintest scent of water. It was as if his senses had suddenly flared to life in ways they never had before, and he was at a loss to explain why.

Well, he thought ruefully, as he felt Grantaire hoisting the duvet up further, and he shifted once more, both freezing as their arms brushed. So much for thirteen seconds.

***

It was that time of year where strong winds would blow through the streets of Paris; chilling and harsh and waking Jehan as they caused the blinds on his windows to hit violently against the pane. Winds that should bring change, he thought, as they hurtled newspapers and umbrellas down the Boulevard Saint-Michel.

He, Courfeyrac and Grantaire were perched on one of the benches that were scattered along the riverbank by Notre Dame; Courfeyrac roosting on the back; his feet planted on the edges of the books that they were studying below him, to stop them skidding off down the pathway. In all logic, they should have stayed inside, but Grantaire had looked in need of fresh air, and for Jehan, the wind that was tugging at his him; pulling hair around his face as it escaped from the elastic band at the base of his neck, was oddly hypnotic. The trees above them were rustling; branches knocking together as if to make up for the fact they were still bare, and the waters of the Seine were scudding white and grey; the scent of the city rushing along on the strong gale.

Grantaire was humming tunelessly under his breath, straddling the bench and apparently completely zoned out. Charcoal was brushed down his thin shirt and acrylics dried under his nails but he didn’t appear to care as he leafed through Courfeyrac’s textbook on Greek art. Perhaps Jehan was imagining it, but he did seem to linger almost fondly on the pages illustrated with Praxiteles’s Apollo. 

“I feel like my hair is going to blow away.” Courfeyrac announced after a time, as he stamped down the page he was trying to focus on as it whipped out from his foot, “I know I said I liked the windswept look. But I think this is a little extreme.”

“Grantaire needs the fresh air.” Jehan told him, “Look at the shadows under his eyes.”

“That’s from no sleep, not from lack of fresh air.” Grantaire said, and there was a small smile on his lips that suddenly seemed exceedingly genuine. He seemed quite happy, and that warmed Jehan’s heart. “But it’s fucking freezing, Jehan.”

“That’s because you wear inadequate clothing.” Jehan said determinedly, as he sat there in bright blue skinny jeans, a purple scarf and a yellow cable sweater. “You can wear my scarf if you’re going to be difficult.”

“Was that a threat or an offer?” 

“Moving on.” Courfeyrac said a little too swiftly for Jehan’s liking. “Who else is terrified that Marius has a date on Wednesday?”

“Aw.” Jehan cooed, “I thought she looked really lovely.”

“What’s the bet Marius gets lost on Wednesday and cocks it up?” Grantaire mused out loud, causing the old lady walking past their bench to shoot him a dirty look.

“You didn’t see the thunderbolt cos you were too busy arguing with Enjolras,” Jehan told him, and didn’t miss the corners of Grantaire’s lips flicker as he said Enjolras’s name, “But it was the stuff of Keats in that café, or Shelley’s skylark from heaven.” 

Courfeyrac gave him an admiring pat on the back,

“Incidentally, what’s up with you and Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asked Grantaire, and Jehan was momentarily diverted as Courfeyrac’s hand remained lightly touching the space between Jehan’s shoulder blades; a sudden warmth thrilling through him that even the wind could not annul. “You seem to be at each other’s necks more than normal.”

Any sarcastic answer Grantaire could have made, as he leant back with the appearance of selecting one of them, was abolished by the group of girls that walked past, and Courfeyrac was momentarily diverted. They blushed when they saw him looking. 

“He’s a great kisser.” Grantaire called loudly after them, having followed his gaze, looking glad to have escaped the line of questioning.

Jehan decided he’d rather not be reminded of how Grantaire knew that, and was oddly relieved when Courfeyrac darted off to pick up the hat that had just blown off an elderly lady’s head; even if he lamented the lost warmth on his back; the ghost of Courfeyrac’s touch causing him to shiver.

He put it out his mind by turning on Grantaire. 

“What happened last night?” He asked, brushing his hair out his eyes, hoping to catch Grantaire out with bluntness, “You’re happy.”

Grantaire snorted, his fingers drumming almost insentiently on the pages of the textbook that he had saved from nearly shooting off the bench after Courfeyrac’s feet had vacated standing on it.

“I like that you voice that like it’s a miracle.”

“What happened with Enjolras?”

“ _Christ_ , Prouvaire, don’t beat around the bush or anything.”

Jehan gave a little shrug, trying to hide his smile, which was hard, as Grantaire was now grinning toothily at him.

“I suppose it’s none of my business.” Jehan tried, then lapsed into silence, not dropping his intent gaze from Grantaire’s face.

His tactic proved successful.

“I was hanging off Enjolras’s front door last night.” Grantaire surrendered, and he really did look happy, Jehan mused. Or at least, momentarily content. “He lugged me home and crashed at mine.”

The shriek that escaped Jehan’s lips was perhaps a little ugly, but this had taken him by surprise. The hug he enfolded Grantaire in was also somewhat uncontrollable; the musk of beer and cigarettes overpowering him as he squealed in delight.

“Calm down. It’s not like we kissed in the moonlight.” Grantaire told him, although Jehan caught the glint in his eyes as he pulled away, “And sleeping next to a statue isn’t the most relaxing thing.”

But Jehan knew that gleam in his eyes meant that his mind was nowhere near so dismissive as his tone implied. _Nowhere_ near. Jehan tried to push him for more details before Courfeyrac sauntered back from his civilian aiding mission, but Grantaire was no longer so forthcoming after his initial confession. Perhaps he was savouring it, Jehan mused as Courfeyrac flopped back in between them. Savouring a thing that had existed between him and the boy he so clearly esteemed. No, that was too weak a word. Because Jehan had seen the look in his eyes when Grantaire had looked at Enjolras, and it was so much _more_ than esteem. Reverence and ill-disguised adoration. And the normal bitter twist of his lips that accompanied it was now replaced with the smallest, almost unperceivable glint of happiness, that lifted his tired eyes and pale, drawn skin. 

And Jehan had never felt himself wishing more fervently for permanence in his life.

***

On Sunday evenings, the restaurant where Feuilly worked every day to scrape enough money together to pay his rent offered a student discount on every type of pizza, along with a starter of onion soup. The result was what Bossuet had proudly coined as ‘a pizza heaven’, which was probably due to the pretty waitress he and Joly dually mooned over, who had started working the Sunday night shifts a fortnight ago.

Ten of them were now clustered round the tables strewn with red chequered cloths; pictures of famous Parisians plastered on the walls about them and candles in wine bottles at their elbows. Grantaire was late, and Marius had opted out of that night to revise for an exam the next day, and from the fact Enjolras had brought a textbook along with him, the atmosphere wasn’t quite as light-hearted as Courfeyrac has been aiming for. But he could work with it.

“You know you’re supposed to be reading the _menu_ , right?” He reminded Enjolras as he removed the breadstick from his mouth that for the last five minutes he’d been pretending to smoke whenever Bahorel made eye contact with him. He’d recently taken offence when Bahorel and Eponine had informed him he would never survive in the rougher parts of town.

Now looking at Enjolras, the cover for _The Secularization of the European Mind in the Nineteenth Century_ was the only response that Courfeyrac was faced with.

Combeferre kicked Courfeyrac under the table as he opened his mouth to try again, and he supposed he didn’t really need reminding that pushing Enjolras when he was busy wasn’t always the best idea. He was obviously craving discount pizza, Courfeyrac decided, shifting his attention back to which topping he was having.

Grantaire arrived with the onion soup, looking cold from the chilly night air. He really should have taken up Coureyrac’s offer on one of his many coats, he mused. Even if the prices of them was perhaps an invitation for acrylic to ruin them. Charcoal was currently brushed up the side of his face.

“How is it Feuilly can keep himself clean, whereas you continually look like you fell in the art supply closet?” Courfeyrac asked by way of greeting as Grantaire flopped into the only free seat at the end of the table by Eponine, a knee drawing up to his chest as he lounged backwards. 

“Feuilly clearly lacks any of my artistic passion” Grantaire shot back instantly, casting a quick glance at the waitress walking away before pulling out a hipflask. 

Feuilly, who most certainly took more care and devotion to his art course than Grantaire could ever do, refused to take the bait and simply gave Grantaire an amused grin. 

“Grantaire, you can’t drink out a hipflask in a restaurant,” Enjolras’s voice was a strong hiss down the table; and Courfeyrac was momentarily pleased the book had been set down at last, even if it was in favour of reprimanding alcohol consumption. 

“I do believe that is exactly what I’m doing.” Grantaire responded, sending a smirk down the table at Enjolras. He looked a little too pleased Enjolras had noticed. “It would appear I have cheated the world once again.”

“Does anyone want my croutons?” Bossuet asked, seemingly oblivious to the intense gaze Enjolras was fixing Grantaire with. “I don’t want Musichetta to think I don’t like the food here.”

“We come here every week.” Bahorel told him, reaching over the table to take Bossuet’s whole bowl of soup, croutons included, despite Bossuet’s whine of protest, “I don’t think there’s any risk of the waitress hating you.”

“Wait, she’s coming back,” Joly said, sitting up straighter, “Let Bossuet and I order for you all.”

“Good lord.” Bahorel groaned around a mouthful of soup, which didn’t produce the most attractive result, “Just get her number already.”

Jehan, who had been rather quiet today, leaned over from his perch next to Courfeyrac so he could whisper in his ear.

“Is this a budding threesome we’re looking at?” He asked, looking from Joly pointing happily at the menu to Bossuet, knocking his drink as he leant over the table to grin at the waitress. She seemed rather amused by their efforts.

“Typical.” Courfeyrac told him. “They get one without even searching for it.”

Jehan, who was still leaning quite close to Courfeyrac, gave a stifled giggle. Corfeyrac felt his face break into a wide smile. Jehan always seemed to have that effect on him. On everyone.

“-I’m just _saying_ it’s rude to the establishment.” It seemed Enjolras was still on Grantaire for resolutely drinking out of the hipflask. It had gotten to the point where Courfeyrac was one hundred percent sure Grantaire’s main goal in life was to cause Enjolras to grit his jaw in that way when he was valiantly struggling to control his temper. It seemed to be happening far more frequently lately. 

“I had no idea you were so polite to people.” Grantaire smiled lazily, although he had stowed away the alcohol when Musichetta had stalked over, “How noble you are.”

The fact that his voice was dripping with sarcasm was probably the reason Enjolras’ cheeks flushed slightly. 

“So who wants to come with me to my history of art social next week?” Courfeyrac interrupted loudly across their bickering, “You like Greek mythology, right, R?”

“Not all the time.”

Sometimes, Courfeyrac considered an hour later, as their main courses were being cleared away and Bossuet was still apologizing to Bahorel for flicking tomato sauce over him by accident, his group of friends made him want to ram his head through a wall. Or their heads. Enjolras and Grantaire had been lightly bickering the whole way through onion soup and pizza, and _discount_ pizza nonetheless. They always bickered, that much was true, but it had gotten to the stage when Courfeyrac really wished they would just jump on each other and be done with it. Sex made everything better in his opinion. And looking at the two of them, Enjolras scowling, and Grantaire looking like he was having the time of his life by making Enjolras’s eyebrows lower with each word, it needed to happen soon.

“People.” He muttered, just as Musichetta came back with the cheque. And ten small glasses filled with Sambuca.

“Enjoy, boys.” She grinned as she set the tray down, looking purposefully at Joly and Bossuet before stalking off, hips rolling. 

Courfeyrac emitted a small whine of envy against his will. Jehan batted him with the sleeve of his jumper. 

“Gimme.” Eponine said from the opposite end of the table to the free drinks, her palm outstretched. 

“Me too.” Grantaire put in, honing in on the drinks like a hawk.

“You’re like a pair of demanding toddlers.” Feuilly sighed, taking the tray and handing it to the two of them, “Just with more advanced tastes.”

“Is Sambuca advanced?” Combeferre asked, looking amused as Eponine and Grantaire lunged for the tray, “It tastes like liquorice to me.”

“I want Musichetta’s liquorice drink.” Joly said quietly, looking mournfully to the other end of the table where Grantaire was tipping his head back, on his second shot already.

“I bet you do.” Courfeyrac put in, feeling it had really been too long since someone had made an innuendo. 

“You can’t down five Sambuca shots.” Enjolras objected in the direction of Eponine and Grantaire, with the air of someone who is completely out of his depth and exceedingly indignant about it. 

“Watch and learn, Apollo.” Grantaire sniggered, “When it comes to drinking, my ineffectuality is transformed to efficiency.” 

Enjolras looked to Combeferre for support, who had to hastily rearranged his face. 

 

After the usual twenty minutes it took to pay the bill (where whoever had only brought a credit card would be cursed to the heavens), they stumbled out onto the narrow street outside the restaurant; that would eventually wind its way across to the Boulevard Saint-Michel where the constant hum of traffic was mutedly swooping past. The buildings here were the typically tall Parisian type, six or seven storeys spanning almost crookedly above glowing bar signs and chalkboards curling with food prices. The Greek restaurant on their right had people jostling outside, talking in thick accents.

“Well I don’t know about you guys,” Courfeyrac said, winding a scarf around his neck, “But my nine o’clock lecture is cutting this party short.”

“I start at eight.” Bahorel put in, raising his hands in mock victory.

As a group they began to trail off, in odd clusters along the winding road; heading towards the busier streets, and Courfeyrac found himself waiting for Jehan as the smaller man pulled at the sleeves of his jumper, long strands of hair splaying across his face from the cold wind as he started to shiver.

“Take my jacket.” Courfeyrac told him, shrugging it off to drape around Jehan’s thin shoulders. He went scarlet. 

“No, I can’t,” He protested, meeting Courfeyrac’s eye, “It’s freezing.”

“Precisely.” Courfeyrac grinned, “Your teeth will fall out if you shake any harder.”

They were heading idly down one of the streets that looked identical to a tourists’ eye, past restaurants boasting falafel or paella. The night had drawn in fully whilst they’d been eating; the darkness of evenings not yet lightened by summer shrouding them as they walked towards the next winding road that would see them to the Seine. 

“What are you thinking?” Jehan asked him in his gentle voice after a minute or so of silence, as he hopped off the pavement to manoeuvre a parked moped, the others drawing too far ahead to make out the exact thing Grantaire and Enjolras were now bickering about. To which Courfeyrac was eternally grateful. 

“I was just thinking about home, actually.” He said with a guilty grin, “You can always see the stars there. Here, they’re foggy and sparse.”

Jehan took a moment to respond, following Courfeyrac’s gaze upwards past chimneys and countless shuttered windows to look at a sky lit orange by the city. 

“Do you miss the south?” He finally asked, hands twined around Courfeyrac’s coat.

“Sometimes.” Courfeyrac admitted as they came out onto the Quai Saint-Michel; the waters of the Seine through the passing cars flashing muted city lights back at him; the embankment on the other side lit by the street lamps above it. Their friends were almost out of sight now, Notre Dame upstream glowing before them in the moonlight. “But there’s something about this city that I find so distracting.”

“It’s rather addictive.” Jehan agreed, his tones pensive; as if his poetic brain were at work. His fingers twitched as if he had something on his mind he wanted to write down. “Let’s cross to walk along the river.”

He led the way over the zebra crossing, and skipped lightly across to the pavement that ran along parallel to the Seine; the high trees on the other side, whose barks lovers would carve their initials waving in the cold breeze that was picking up once again.

Courfeyrac did find this place distracting, he mused, as he fell in with the rhythm of Jehan’s light footsteps; of the sound of passing cars; of the thrum of passing river boats and the rustling of leaves. There was routine to it now, after being here two years or so; yet it was a regularity that his heart still found new and exhilarating. And he had always loved exhilaration. 

He didn’t expressly think about what went through his mind when his hand tangled itself in Jehan’s ink-stained fingers. But one moment his hand was by his side, and then cold skin was against his.

Jehan stopped dead in his tracks.

They stayed like that a moment, Courfeyrac looking at Jehan, and Jehan looking at their entwined fingers as the city sped about them in its lazy night-time sprawl. But neither of them released their grip.

“Do you know what you’re doing, Courfeyrac?” Jehan finally asked, and his voice was gentle; a small hint of colour spanning high across his cheeks.

“I’m holding your hand, Jehan.”

Jehan was hesitating, as if there was something he wanted to say exceedingly badly, and for some reason, Courfeyrac found his heart beginning to speed.

“I like you.” When Jehan spoke his voice had grown quieter, but there was something strong to his tone, even if he was looking at the pavement beneath their feet now. “A lot. And you’re someone who seriously wears bowties and cardigans and flirts with passing people and they all love you-”

His words were jumbled; an amalgamation of sentiment and everything he felt in that huge heart of his and Courfeyrac stood there, listening to him, wondering if he had ever felt his heart beat so fast before and knowing he never had. And then he squeezed the fingers still clutched in his grasp that suddenly felt like the only source of warmth as the wind grew stronger and colder. And Jehan stopped talking and stepped closer.

Standing there, the breeze whipping at his scarf and tugging at his hair, Courfeyrac found himself transfixed. There was a sudden, steeling glint in those grey eyes before him and he drank it in, along with the cluster of freckles he had never really noticed, not properly, dusting across his cheekbones; grey-blonde hair brushed over his ears. And it suddenly struck Courfeyrac how very _beautiful_ Jehan was.

Jehan blushed, and maybe Courfeyrac had spoken out loud.

When he pulled him in and kissed him; it seemed as if all of Paris was muted, and all he could hear and feel was Jehan, and the hammering of two hearts.


	4. And their branches were bare against the wind and the cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a few of them leave Paris for the day, and Courfeyrac is definitely not a monarchist but those kings had some great gardens. Ok? Ok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever thanks for reading! If you have any questions or whatnot please feel free to swing by my [tumblr](http://icarus-drunk.tumblr.com//) \- human contact is always good... ;D

He could still see the moon when he closed his eyes. 

Not the moon outside his window now, glowing in a clear sky as he shifted on the sheets, sheets the stupid part of him never wanted to change ever again. No, in Grantaire’s mind, the moon of tonight was nowhere near as beautiful, as serene or unsettling as that moon of Saturday.

The taste of Sambuca was still in his mouth, unpleasant and sickly despite the toothpaste he’d used absent-mindedly when he’d eventually stumbled back into the flat that seemed to be crumbling around him. 

He still felt chilled from the unforgiving wind that had somehow got to his bones as they had sat on that bench that afternoon. But the flecks of happiness that had fluttered about him were still there; and he sank onto the bean bag, facing his mattress, _that_ mattress; a sweeping of reflection settling over his insomniac mind. 

The night Enjolras had slept on that bed and broken Grantaire’s heart. Grantaire had lain there, never being so unable to sleep in his entire life, just listening to Enjolras breathing. Taking in everything; the small movements of shoulders and legs, the whisper of hair against a pillow. His heart had been thundering so loud he was sure Enjolras would have heard it. 

Enjolras had left in the morning when his alarm had gone off; a shrill noise jarring into the indescribably perfect rhythm that had been building around Grantaire; what had been a dream for tired, unsleeping eyes. He hadn’t dared to say anything as he’d gone; had just watched him leave through half closed lids as the door had clicked in its awkward way behind him; no goodbye or sentiment, because that wasn’t who Enjolras was when Grantaire was concerned. The weight of Enjolras disappearing from that mattress had felt like something had been ripped from his heart too. He’d lain there with the ghost of the other man’s scent until the sun had crested the city. 

His heart may have felt like it had cracked, but something else had perhaps poured into it as he had lain there in the growing dawn, exhilaration coursing along his veins. And when he’d finally shifted to his feet; bare feet on rough flooring, it had felt like happiness. He’d mused in dry amusement at how hard that felt to recognise; to picture that blonde head and associate it with almost satisfaction. 

Enjolras detested him. He knew that much. Perhaps sometimes that hostility would slip, but it was always there below the surface; with each twist of disdainful lips and lowering of lofty brows. It hurt him, but it hurt wonderfully. He was the dust stream of a comet, not a star abandoned alone in the universe. He felt like Icarus, wondering too high; soaring, drunk with wine where Icarus had been drunk with flight. That tantalizing rush that would pull him higher. That betrayal as the sun scorched his wings. A sun with curling hair and a downturned, stern mouth. A comet that filled his following rock with a reluctant hope. with his online petitions, organised fundraisers and endless volunteering. An advocate for a better world. And that sometimes made Grantaire afraid, because all stars burned out eventually. 

But no, perhaps not this one.

He needed a hobby, he decided, as he finally staggered to his feet to perch on the edge of the mattress. Something aside from drinking. Because now he was looking at the edges of his duvet that Enjolras had smoothed before leaving, and he couldn’t bring himself to touch it as he hadn’t been able to knock on Enjolras’s door that night and enter a world that wasn’t his and never would be.

And he still couldn’t fucking sleep.

***

Combeferre picked his phone up from the table, looked at the text that had just come through, and groaned through his mouthful of sandwich.

It was a sunny day; still cold, but he was sitting determinedly outside the café on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, the top of the Musée de Cluny just visible over the hedgerows across the busy road as he waited for his midday lecture.

The text was from Courfeyrac, who answered the phone after its third ring when Combeferre decided this conversation would go without the customary list of kisses and smiley faces. The rushing sound of a busy road flowed behind Courfeyrac’s voice.

“A good morning to you,” Coufeyrac began instantly, his far too jovial tones trying to hide what was sure to be a guilty expression, “My little piece of sunshine-”

“What do you _mean_ , you’ve broken my car?” 

“Well,” Courfeyrac sounded a little hesitant, and Combeferre rolled his eyes as he sat back in his chair, reflecting that, really, lending his car to Courfeyrac would probably not have ended any differently, “It started making odd noises halfway down the A13, and then it gave this splendid spluttery sound and died about a mile from Versailles.”

“Well, what’s wrong with it?”

“Do I seem like the kind of person who understands cars? Jehan said something about a starter motor but I think he was just saying it to look hot-”

“Have you called anyone?”

“Sure,” Courfeyrac sounded far too relaxed about this, Combeferre noted agitatedly. He grumpily reflected that Courfeyrac was most likely reclining against the dying car as they spoke, enjoying what the kicked up breeze of passing vehicles was doing to his hair. “They’ll be here in a bit, I reckon. We’ll take it to the nearest garage then head to Versailles. Lucky I called in sick today, you know.”

“What?” Combeferre found himself sincerely regretting the moment earlier that morning when he’d let Courfeyrac cheerfully phone and ask if he and Jehan could borrow his car as his car keys were in his apartment and they had a spare key and thank you very much. “You can’t just leave my car somewhere!”

“Of course we can. There is culture at stake here. Beautiful gardens and all that. Great for making out in. I’ll send an update on your car sometime-”

“ _Courfeyrac_ -”

“Oh, and don’t tell Enjolras we’re headed for the building that symbolizes the total monarchical control of the _ancien régime_. I feel he’d make us disinfect ourselves before he came anywhere near us again. Bye!”

Combeferre wasn’t prone to swearing, but as he set his phone back down on the table, he mentally cursed Courfeyrac with every expletive under the sun, with the addition of a few colourful ones of his own.

“Easy there, tiger.”

He realised that perhaps his thoughts may have leaked into mutterings as Eponine smirked down at him, mid step as she made to pass his table. That or she was psychic. With Eponine the latter was an equal possibility. 

“Er, hey. You heading to a lecture?” Combeferre asked quickly, to cover up the mild embarrassment that was heating the back of his neck.

“Hell no,” She grinned, shifting her weight to her left leg in a habitual manner, “I’m having a self-imposed day off for my- _wow_ , could you look more disapproving?” 

“I…uh, sorry,” He hastily rearranged his features, that had assumed one of mild condemnation at the mention of skipped lectures, “Do you want to sit down? I’ve got ages before I have to be somewhere.”

“Being a loner?” She grinned, and accepted his offer; dropping into the seat opposite him as she shook her hair out over her shoulder, 

“I suppose so.” Combeferre replied good-naturedly, and couldn’t help wincing as he saw how pronounced her collarbones were, “Can I get you anything?”

Eponine turned a twisted grin on him,

“No sympathy food for me, thanks, Combeferre.” She cut across his increasing discomfort with apparent indifference to the mood she had created, “So why the cursing? Did you just realise how boring econometrics, or whatever it is you study, is?”

“Says the accounting student.” He returned, relieved at the change of topic, “And my frustration was more aimed at the person who has broken my car whilst trying to seduce my  
friend.”

“Courfeyrac’s not your friend anymore, then?” She said, not missing a beat. The clue had obviously been in the word ‘seduce’, Combeferre supposed. 

“Not anymore.” 

“Who’s he seducing anyway?”

“Jehan, apparently. At least, that’s what I gathered. I’m guessing that whatever they hung back to talk about on the way home last night progressed.”

“I think the mass text Jehan sent out last night consisting of an epic recital of romantic sonnets also may have been a slight clue.” Eponine said lightly, grabbing his spoon and helping herself to some of the cream on his macchiato. Combeferre didn’t try to stop her. 

“Oh. That too.” 

He watched her with mild amusement, lapsing into a comfortable silence as she kicked her feet against the floor.

“What are you reading?” She finally asked, nodding towards the book that was splayed, side up and abandoned, on the table between them.

“It’s just a course book. Although there’s a few newspaper clippings in there too.”

“Why?” She asked, looking genuinely curious. 

“Well, if I’m on the metro, or in a café and I need to go but the newspaper I’m reading has a story I want to look at, I kind of…borrow it.” Combeferre hoped he didn’t sound as ridiculous as he suddenly felt.

“What kind of stories?” Eponine probed, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Combeferre suddenly felt that the concept of ‘borrowing’ was not one completely beyond her.

“Well, stuff about the government, new laws, foreign affairs- just things about the world.”

“Why do you care enough to tear it out a newspaper and carry it round in a book?” 

“Because I care about that kind of thing. How people are struggling, and what’s being done to make it better, and what’s making it worse. Sometimes it makes me melancholy. But sometimes it gives me hope.”

“Hope for what?”

“That maybe we can make the world a better place after all.”

Eponine was silent for a while at this, focusing instead on the spoon as she helped herself to more whipped cream,

“I think you’re very clever, Combeferre.” She eventually said, “And that you don’t really care about the politics or economy or the complicated whatevers of the world. You really care about the people. Every single one.”

“Of course I do. Who wouldn’t?”

She twisted her lips in a bitter grimace, and didn’t answer. 

The next words she spoke weren’t halting, or forced; but a genuine, unsentimental and matter-of-fact statement. 

“I think you’ve already made the world a better place by being in it, Combeferre.” 

She left not long after that, in between a few jibes and another spoonful of whipped cream, heading down the busy street; the back of her dark head vanishing amongst the crowds. She left Combeferre in a musing, turning current of contemplation.

***

The mid afternoon sun was irritating Enjolras.

His Monday afternoon was being spent as normal; preparing for all of his lectures and seminars in the coming week; and the strip of sunlight that came inconveniently through the gap in the drawn curtains had meant he’d had to relocate from the sofa to the floor on the other side of the coffee table, which was significantly less comfortable. 

He’d tuned out the mild discomfort in his legs quite successfully, pouring over course books and journals, unconsciously tapping his pen against the table, his feet folded underneath him. 

It took him a while to notice his phone was ringing.

He set the pen down; tossing it down onto the table as he dragged the mobile towards him, head still spinning with the policies of past figures and the futures they had wanted to carve into the world. 

He sighed as he took in the name blinking at him, but slid the green button across the screen all the same. The voice at the other end chimed in instantly before he could get a word out.

“I need to see the countryside.” 

“I-What?”

Grantaire’s voice faltered for a moment, and Enjolras had the suspicion it was to take a drag from a cigarette. Despite being alone, he rolled his eyes.

“Would you please take me out of town?” He said again, “My art project is calling for more hills, and I’ve no money and Courfeyrac broke Combeferre’s car.”

“I know.” Enjolras replied to the last part, and sucked in his breath, “Just borrow some money from someone and take the metro.”

“Or you could just take half an hour out of your important life to drop me off by a field somewhere and pick me up later.” Grantaire’s voice was bitter now, and Enjolras was surprised at the odd swoop of guilt he suddenly felt in his stomach. His eyes fell on the book he needed to read by tomorrow, and the pile of notes he’d really have liked to type up today.

“Where do you need to go?” He heard himself saying.

“Anywhere where there are rolling trees and rows of hills or whatever.” There was a note in Grantaire’s voice that Enjolras didn’t understand, but he sounded happy. “I’ll let your questionable impulsive side decide that. Ready to go in ten?”

He hung up before Enjolras could agree.

It was stupid, Enjolras kept thinking, as he locked the door to his apartment a few minutes later, descending those stone steps and headed towards his car. Stupid that he wasn’t protesting to Grantaire’s demands, stupid that his legs were folding under the steering wheel and that his fingers were turning the car keys in the ignition. The car rumbled to life and for some reason a scatter of hostile reservations he had seemed to fade at the sound. Grantaire frustrated and confused him ceaselessly, and he couldn’t work out why he simply didn’t pick up the phone when he called, or refuse to talk to him, shunned him until he went away and Enjolras’s portion of the world would be a Grantaire-less one. Perhaps it would feel too like abandonment; to leave such a self-destructive cynic so cast out after everything Enjolras wanted and desired changed about the world. Perhaps in one small part of him, he wanted the triumphant satisfaction of seeing a genuine smile on those bitter lips. But the harshness he treated him with always slipped out anyway. 

The nagging feeling that this was a terrible idea stole over Enjolras as he turned down the rambling street Grantaire lived in; his keen mind having memorized the route. As Grantaire had evidently known he would. Thirty minutes alone with Grantaire in small space didn’t sound like factors for an easy time. It sounded more like a recipe for murder. And then there was the moonlight playing in the recesses of his mind; that mental image of Grantaire curled beside him, awake and breathing with Paris outside his window. And Enjolras felt impossibly uncomfortable at how often that image was returning to his mind. And now, for the first time since then, they were both alone together and the uneasy stirring in his chest was worrying and he felt irritated already.

But when he pulled up outside Grantaire’s tenement building and found him already there; when he clambered into the seat across with a good natured smile and another thin t-shirt, and made a joke about how he wasn’t going to throw up this time, Enjolras began to think perhaps he needn’t have worried so much.

“Where are we going?” Enjolras said to break the brief silence that had stretched with them to the end of the road. The sun was nestled in a clear cold, blue sky that day; and the car was warm and stuffy.

“I told you, embrace your inner spontaneous streak.” Grantaire snorted, digging around in his bag for something, “Turn left. No, right. Yeah, go right.”

“Please don’t do this the whole way.” Enjolras muttered, hitting the right indicator all the same.

Grantaire ended up directing him towards the Place de la Concorde after heading up the Quai Anatole France, the Luxor obelisk blinding in the sunlight as it stretched up to the clear sky. As they passed it, Grantaire finally pulled out a pouch of tobacco and rolling paper. Enjolras pursed his lips but refrained from saying anything. 

As they headed up the Avenue des Champs-Élysées; the chestnut tree lined road offering pockets of shade with a brief glimpse of the Eiffel Tower flashing from far over the Seine; Grantaire began to lay out pinches of tobacco along the paper, teeth grating his lower lip in concentration. Enjolras pointedly opened the windows a centimetre or so, which Grantaire ignored. 

“So,” Grantaire said, just when Enjolras was beginning to idly notice that the silence between them was not companionable, but strained. He was still rolling the cigarette in his slender fingers as he flicked an amused glance towards Enjolras’s chest, “That’s a red blazer, then?”

“What-I…” He darted a quick glance down at his front, where indeed the lapels of a red blazer were arranged, “Yes?”

“I like it.” Grantaire’s voice was mocking again, and Enjolras was fairly sure it was his default tone, “Very revolutionary and republican. Don’t look up now, the Arc de Triomphe is just there. Can you sense the Napoleonic waves rolling off it?” 

Enjolras sighed.

“Can’t you go two minutes without mocking something?” He grated, eyes flicking to the wing mirror, fingers re-gripping the wheel. 

“Nope. It’s either that or being woefully dejected about everything.”

“What do you mean, Grantaire?”

His impatient tones were clipped; and he wasn’t really sure why he was asking Grantaire anything. Because it just meant he would become impossible; descend further into  
cryptic pessimism and antagonize him. Because that was all Grantaire seemed to do.

“Because,” Grantaire said in a patient tone, finishing off the cigarette he had been rolling, “I don’t think, in a world like this, that it’s possible to feel any different.” 

Enjolras absorbed this a moment, holding off his initial answer as Grantaire’s tone stuck in his mind. Patient and light, as if his words were skirting over a vast swelling of what he felt; the surface of a dark ocean. 

He’d never really thought before what an unhappy person Grantaire seemed to be.

That thought unnerved him so much he found himself putting forwards his initial reply, because he could think of nothing else to say and he wasn’t sure why he had been searching.

“So you act defeated?” 

Grantaire gave a harsh laugh, lost slightly in the wind whipping at the space of open window; loud in Enjolras’s ears. 

“Come on Enjolras, read a paper, watch the news, then read a history book. Do you really think anything ever gets better?”

“Yes.” He replied savagely, “Of course it does. You’re just being difficult.”

“Why, cos you think I like to irritate you? Tell me that there aren’t people homeless and starving all over the world and that the higher powers that are supposed to stop that aren’t corrupted and useless.” 

“And that’s _why_ you can’t give up. Don’t you see?”

“A singular drunken art student won’t change anything.” Grantaire’s voice was gentle, and Enjolras felt his gaze on him, “Nothing at all.”

“You’re wrong. Every person counts. It’s like the individual bricks that make a wall, or leaves a tree.”

“Even me?” Grantaire sounded dryly amused now, but perhaps he asked the question a little quickly; rolling another cigarette with stiff movements that seemed like he was only doing it so he had something to do with his hands. But Enjolras ignored that observation, like he did with most of the things Grantaire did. “I must be the wilting leaf, or an asymmetrical brick that threatens to bring the wall crumbling down.” 

Enjolras abruptly regretted the metaphor, and began to feel irritated under his initial disquiet.

“You’re equivocal. You don’t commit yourself to anything. Lounging around and complaining does nothing. But you must care.”

“How’s that?” Grantaire’s tone was challenging, but not particularly offended. 

“If you didn’t care, Grantaire, you wouldn’t feel dejected.” 

The silence the fell briefly after that statement definitely felt strained to Enjolras, as Grantaire played with the finished cigarette still in his clutches, and La Défense spanned the horizon with its tall high-rises, a modern island on the edge of the city.

The sudden trill of Grantaire’s phone made them both jump.

“It’s Courfeyrac,” Grantaire said, having unlocked the screen and scanned the text. Enjolras risked a quick glance at him and saw no traces of his usually sardonic smile. “Apparently he’s having the time of his life stranded with Jehan in an undisclosed location.”

“Undisclosed location?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. I don’t think I’ll ask; I’ll just set myself up for another graphic description of his sexual exploits. I have to say, I didn’t see Jehan and Courfeyrac coming. And I’m so glad Courf’s not here, because that was a ridiculous opening for an innuendo…”

He carried on like that, idle ramblings, as they eventually left the heart of Paris behind them; on the A14 as the outskirts surrounded them, past the Montesson toll that Grantaire mysteriously could contribute a handful of cents to. And then even the suburbs were shrinking back into the wing mirror, and fields were beginning to unfurl around them with more consistency; green and brown hues muted by the clouds that were decidedly blotting out the earlier sunshine. Enjolras ruefully reflected that the vexing strip of sunlight his living room would be long gone by now.

He and Grantaire had shifted back to their normal rhythm of idly disagreeing on everything after Enjolras’s accidental, halting probing into Grantaire’s mind. But Grantaire seemed half hearted in his mockery as they plunged into a tunnel; three minutes later the sudden burst of daylight streaming back through the dusted windscreen.

“Here.” Grantaire was suddenly saying, as he finished off a randomly tied sentence that appeared to be verging towards the subject of facial hair, and Enjolras was ready to throw him out the car if he ever arrived at it. 

“What?”

“Go up that road.”

The car behind them beeped loudly as Enjolras complied.

“A little warning might have been nice.” He shot at Grantaire, jaw gritted. 

Grantaire laughed at that.

“My artistic impulses are not to be subjected to the restraints of convenience. Keep going up the road.”

And to Enjolras’s revulsion, he put the cigarette he’d kept in his fingers for the past half hour to his lips.

“Don’t you dare light that.” 

“We’ve been in this car for forty-five minutes, Enjolras. Come on, the window is open.”

“If you light it, you’re walking home.” Enjolras told him stiffly, and they both knew he probably meant it.

He saw Grantaire turn to him out the corner of his eye, and definitely caught the flash of a grin.

Keeping his eye on the thinning road, he reached across and snatched the cigarette stuck slightly against Grantaire’s lips. Grantaire let out a mewl of sorrow. 

“Is this about me being able to grow facial hair?” He asked.

“Shut up, Grantaire.”

“Oh, go up that lane!”

There was much eye rolling and mutterings about art students as Enjolras found himself following Grantaire’s proposal, tarmac now replaced by worn, hard soil as they climbed a gentle slope.

“You are paying for new tires.” He told Grantaire, who was winding down his window, leaning half out to look at the trees spanning about their heads.

“Well, considering I thought you were going to make me plant twenty trees to more than eradicate the carbon footprint we’ve created today, I’ll accept that.” He replied, settling back into the car, “You can stop the car when your spontaneity runs its course, by the way.”

The engine cut instantly. 

“Well,” Grantaire said, his tones cheerful as he set his bag back on his lap, one hand on the door handle, “You can either drive all the way back to Paris and later plant some trees, or come and appreciate the countryside with me.”

“You’ve given me little choice.”

Grantaire turned to look at him, grey eyes framed by black lashes, thin lips slowly twisting into a hesitant smile.

“Of course I did.” He said after a moment. Then he leant over and tugged the cigarette that had been slotted between Enjolras’s fingers since saving his car from the lingering scent of tobacco. 

Dappled sunlight fell across his eyes as Enjolras stepped out of the car; the ochre of the rough road beneath his feet slightly soft from previous days of rain. The trees were  
rustling; birds singing; an unaccustomed sound no longer drowned out by traffic or the other sounds of a rushing city, spanning up the small hill before them.

“This is great.” Grantaire was saying, swinging his bag over his shoulder as he slammed the car door shut, “Completely in the middle of nowhere. I have no idea where we are.”

“We’re just outside of-” Enjolras began, but Grantaire cut him off with an amused shake of his head,

“No, I don’t want to know. Shall we go up here?”

Enjolras cast a mildly despairing look at his parked car, before resignedly following Grantaire as he headed through the trees; Grantaire stumbling over fallen branches and undergrowth as he finally lit the cigarette. 

Spanning out before them were the rolling hills Grantaire had apparently been searching for; wild grass spanning in tangles past their feet; sloping down to clash against a pale grey, spring sky. 

Grantaire gave an appreciative whistle, walking forwards on quick feet; down the hill with determined footsteps.

“Just look,” He said, and Enjolras watched his smile with mild curiosity, “There’s not a building in sight.”

Enjolras skirted his eyes unseeingly around the landscape.

“It’s just fields and trees.” He replied. 

“Yeah, but isn’t it beautiful? No people. At all. Well, just us and the odd person walking their dog, I suppose. _Ah_.”

He had been running a thoughtful hand through thick curls, and now without warning, gave quick contemplation to a lone tree jutting out to tangle with the sky, and darted up it; hands grasping the twining branches. 

“What _are_ you doing?” Enjolras asked, forehead crumpling as Grantaire settled against the branches, looking stupidly proud of himself.

“Will the mighty blond political history student deign to join me in the clouds?” He shot down at him through a twisted smile, cigarette still perched absurdly between his lips. 

“No thank you.” Enjolras said instantly, voice stiff. 

“Come on. Isn’t this a part of the world you long to save?” He asked, and Enjolras missed that his mocking tone was slipping slightly. “You have to learn to appreciate more than the people, Enjolras.”

Enjolras heard himself scoff loudly.

“I really don’t think climbing trees will help anything.”

“Nonsense. This is appreciation of nature. I’ll even put the cigarette out if you can dare to leave the ground for a moment.” 

“If you don’t paint anything today I’m never picking up the phone again.” Enjolras told him, a hand closing experimentally around one of the jutting branches, “I thought you said you were falling behind with your course?”

“That ship sailed long ago. And you can’t rush a masterpiece. Plus I’ll work so much better if I know I’ve managed to make you live a little.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Enjolras muttered under his breath, and after a moments deliberation he was climbing up the tree; bare branches skimming his back as he hauled himself upwards, feeling Grantaire’s eyes on him and being unable to decide if that made him uncomfortable or not. His fingers brushed Grantaire’s inadvertently in the ascent and they both hastily jerked their hands away.

He came to a rest a few centimetres above Grantaire; resting his back against a vertically jutting branch; feet angling on lower spans; the rich scent of slightly damp bark obliterated by the smell of tobacco. 

Grantaire sat there quietly just below him a moment, his knees folded towards his chest; the tattoo just below the inner crook of his elbow visible as his thin arms splayed out before him.

“It smells different.” He said after a time. “Cleaner. Can’t you tell the difference?”

“It smells like cigarettes, actually.” Enjolras said pointedly.

Grantaire made a small noise in the back of his throat, and stubbed the cigarette out on a nearby branch. Enjolras was rather proud he refrained himself from an exasperated comment.

“Are you going to paint anything?” He asked, sounding a little tetchy. The branch was digging into his back.

“Patience.” Grantaire said as he exhaled the last of his cigarette smoke, looking out at the landscape unfolding beneath him, “I’d forgotten how much I liked the countryside.”

He eventually did drag out his sketchbook, along with a portable watercolour set and two battered paintbrushes, and Enjolras watched him stain the paper with bold interpretations of the sprawling scene before them; the yellow of rapeseed plants, the dark grey of gathered clouds, and the lush green of budding leaves. He watched from his place in the branches, just a few centimetres from the other man, shoulders close to touching, and he could make out every flick of Grantaire’s hair, each fleck of paint staining his skin, and the goosebumps that layered his arms as the wind picked up slightly. Grantaire hummed under his breath as he painted, perhaps unconsciously, and Enjolras felt slightly taken aback at how well Grantaire could work when he wasn’t mocking, or drinking, or smoking. He found himself a little unable to look up at the ominously grey sky, or the scenery around them, and instead watched under habitually lowered brows the sketching of an art student who dressed poorly and smelt of nicotine. 

A half hour later, a droplet of rain fell on his nose. A few minutes after that, that first droplet was followed by three more.

“It’s beginning to rain.” He said unnecessarily, glancing down to Grantaire’s work, where two fat raindrops had landed; the paper rising under their weight.

“Mmm.” Was all Grantaire said, sucking on his lower lip as he kept his gaze fixed on the sketchbook in his hand.

“Grantaire.”

“I take it you are averse to the rain?” Grantaire asked, grinning slightly. The shower picked up slightly. “Worried about those curls of yours?”

“ _Grantaire_.”

“Ok, ok. Give me a sec.” 

Enjolras hadn’t really meant to use what Courfeyrac called his Really Not To Be Argued With Voice, but he was thinking about his car on that muddy path, and the forty-five minute journey back, and rush hour that would be waiting for them in the city. And for some reason that had sparked him out from the lulled easiness that had crept over him for that past half hour. Which, when he would look back on it later, he found he had really quite enjoyed. 

But now he slid back down the tree; bark hard against his back as he landed on the ground as the rain became a determined mist around them; instantly soaking the ends of his hair and shoulders.

Grantaire hopped down a moment later, after a brief glance about him, lips compressed and a look in his eyes that seemed like he was committing his surroundings to memory. He shoved his sketchbook back into the safety of his rucksack as they began to pick their way towards Enjolras’s car; the rain sheathing them in a haze as their surroundings leaked into one another; colours seeping like Grantaire’s watercolours.

By the time they both clambered into the car they were drenched; jeans sticking to skin and hair to faces. Enjolras swept the hair plastered to his forehead back as he started the engine, frowning as he cranked up the heating. Grantaire sat placidly by his side, seemingly oblivious to his dripping black curls as he watched Enjolras’s movements, as if he were trying to be inconspicuous. 

“Thank you.” He said quietly, as the car began to slide into movement,

“What?” Enjolras asked abuprtly, concentrating on the muddy lane, and almost missing the comment.

“For today.” Grantaire’s face lit up with a smile, and he finally ran his hand through the clusters of his sodden curls. “Thank you for bringing me to this mysterious, unidentified spot of countryside.”

“I know where we are, Grantaire.”

“Stop spoiling everything.”

The rain was soft on the windscreen, and as they hit tarmac once again it hissed under the tires; a sticking noise under the strumming of windscreen wipers. Enjolras tried to ignore Grantaire twisting in his seat to look at the lane they’d parked in as it merged out of sight into the rain sodden landscape, but really, once again he was trying to think about what might be going on his mind. This time, he didn’t ask. 

Grantaire fell asleep halfway down the autoroute; one knee drawn up to his chest that Enjolras would later berate him for as he’d left a muddy footprint on the seat. And although Enjolras wasn’t entirely sure, as he didn’t like to take his eyes off the road for long, he thought that maybe he could discern the raised corners of a smiling mouth.


	5. Sometimes the heavy cold rains would beat the spring back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Jehan's picnic plans fall slightly apart and Courfeyrac had not anticipated Jehan's music tastes.

By a turn of ill luck, Feuilly had put the wrong end of the paintbrush in his mouth, and now he was swearing around bitter acrylic as he ran to the tap in the corner of the room to try and wash out the taste.

"Why doesn’t someone make this stuff taste better, stupid, goddamn, motherfu-”

“You know,” Grantaire said calmly, not looking up from his easel, “It _could_ have been oil paint. That tastes even more like poison. Or you could have drunk your paint water thinking it was alcohol. I’m just saying, it could have been worse.”

“Shut _up_ this is the worst thing that could have happened.”

They were far enough from deadlines that it was just the two of them in that small basement art room that day; a meekly sunny Tuesday with a clear, blue sky. They’d both moved their easels towards the ajar window that opened up the room to the tangled of grass above, in order to furtively smoke as they painted. It had been Grantarie’s idea to come here that morning when they had no classes, and Feuilly had followed, still tired from the late shift at work he’d taken on the previous night. Grantaire had been chatting aimlessly as usual; looking like he hadn’t slept last night with his unkempt hair, and they’d both revelled in their exhaustion and nicotine cravings. The radio in the corner of the room was tuned to an indie station Feuilly enjoyed humming along through his cigarette. And now, the taste of acrylic. 

He was still swearing under his breath when the sunlight was blotted out marginally by the figure that appeared on the grass outside.

Courfeyrac was crouching down to look in at them, a bow tie over his denim shirt and a rucksack draped over his arm. 

“Afternoon my soap bubbles.” He grinned, as he leant a hand casually against the open window frame, “It’s time for a bridge picnic.” 

“What the fuck is that?” Grantaire asked without the slightest trace of enthusiasm.

“I am offended at your language. And it’s exactly what it says on the tin. Now are you sneaking out of this delightful window or not?”

“Seriously?” Feuilly asked, still working a tongue around his mouth as he sent an appraising look to the painting he’d been working on. “Hang on, I need to finish this.” It took him a half a minute to painstakingly finish off the work, rinse his brush and then study the canvas with a satisfied sigh, “There. Art.” 

And with that, he kicked his chair towards the window ledge.

“I’m using watercolour,” Grantaire muttered, reaching for his bag anyway. “You bunch of bastards.”

“Hey this was Jehan’s idea.” Courfeyrac told him, offering a hand for Feuilly to hold onto, “Take it up with him if you dare.”

It turned out exiting through the window was a lot smoother in theory. Grantaire knocked his shin on the frame on the way out and was swearing colourfully as he hobbled out towards the road.

“And what was wrong with the fucking door?” He concluded, leaning down to nurse his leg as they emerged onto the pavement; passing cars driving slow on the narrow street.

“This is much more fun.” Courfeyrac told him determinedly, looking to Feuilly for support, who simply lit another cigarette to avoid answering, “Jehan enforced the importance of spontaneity.”

“There has been too much of that going round lately.” Grantaire muttered, perhaps more to himself than to them. 

“What’s the deal with you and Jehan, anyway?” Feuilly asked, stowing his lighter away as Courfeyrac led them amiably down the narrow street towards the bigger boulevards, running a hand through his curling hair.

He was rather taken aback as Courfeyrac turned to face him, wide eyed wonder filling his face like a child. 

“I don’t know what happened Sunday night, Feuilly, but we were talking, and he was being his normal self; you know, saying wonderful words, and doing that skipping thing he does when he’s walking, and I don’t know, something just kind of fell into place in my head- actually no I was more like thunderbolt, and they always say liking someone makes you feel sick and I’ve never felt like this before, and it’s _wonderful_.” 

Feuilly blinked.

“You’re going out then?” He finally mustered, feeling his confinement of the torrent Courfeyrac had just unleashed was perhaps a little lame.

“I guess so, I mean, I haven’t asked him. Oh god, I probably should of. I’m an idiot. But we drove to Versailles yesterday and spent most of it kissing in the gardens and it didn’t matter that it rained. It was like a goddam film. Oh shit, I wasn’t going to tell you it was Versailles.”

“I’m telling Enjolras.” Grantaire said in a sing song voice. 

Feuilly curiously observed the look in Courfeyrac’s face as he rushed over his words, a flush in his cheeks and his eyes _shining_ and he didn’t know whether to feel overwhelmingly happy for his friend, or just a little bit sick.

He opted for both. 

“Well, that’s great, Courf. I think Jehan may have been mad about you for a while.” He told him.

“I didn’t clue in.” Courfeyrac sighed in his customary melodramatic way, “At all.”

Grantaire snorted loudly. 

“He wasn’t exactly subtle about it.” He informed him.

It was with a great deal of effort that Courfeyrac and Feuilly avoided one another’s gazes. Courfeyrac’s sudden burst of not-so-nonchalant whistling was sadly particularly blatant. 

Courfeyrac led them towards the Seine, past businessmen on their lunch breaks, and tourists that were growing in numbers now that a reluctant spring was more or less here.

It took them five minutes, winding their way through the constant traffic and bustling crowds, to reach Pont Neuf; ferries scudding under it, cars over it, and children tilting over its edge; parents scolding them if they leant too far. It was still quite windy; the breeze cold despite the persistent sunshine that still hadn’t achieved its summer warmth. 

Only two of their group were there already; perched on one of the stone benches that made mock alcoves on the bridge in between the dark iron lampposts.

“Marius Pontmercy.” Feuilly said in mock disbelief, when he took in the two figures, and instantly recognised another ugly jumper, “Are you actually on time for something?”

“Jehan passed me in the street.” Marius told him, inclining his head to the poet beside him, who was sitting crossed legged with his bag on his lap; balancing a notebook out before him. “He told me I was going in the wrong direction.”

“Because the food is here.” Courfeyrac agreed, sweeping forwards and collapsing down into the space next to Jehan, kissing him grandiosely on the cheek. Jehan went scarlet, a grin splitting his delicate features. “And by food I mean those _spectacular_ fairy cakes that Jehan makes.” 

Feuilly, who was really rather partial to those fairy cakes, however hard he tried to hide it, followed suit and sat down in the alcove too. 

It didn’t take too long for the rest of their group to join them, which Feuilly was rather thankful about, as Courfeyrac and Jehan- even if they weren’t officially together- were evidently making up for time when their hands hadn’t been entwined in one another’s hair, or jean pockets. And Feuilly was also under the terrible impression that the looks Marius kept sending them was some way of him gathering tips. Which was terrifying. 

“Thank God,” Feuilly muttered as Bahorel appeared amongst the crowd; a head taller than most and working a hand through his dark hair.

“Just to let you all know I was really busy.” He said as he got within earshot, “I was trying to avoid my seminar tutor.” Then, out of the six foot two student with three day old stubble who was currently crushing the cigarette he’d been smoking on the pavement came the words, “I’m only here for the fairy cakes.”

It was lucky Enjolras and Combeferre arrived when they did, because the fairy cakes were starting to cause mutiny and only Jehan was prepared to fight Bahorel over the fact that _no_ he couldn’t have three. 

“They were supposed to cause love,” Jehan was saying with wide eyes as Combeferre took the tin of cakes away, “Not greediness.” 

“You’re getting dangerously close to Enjolras unleashing a speech on how the world does that to humanity.” Grantaire muttered loudly.

For his credit, Enjolras looked like he hadn’t been intending that at all. But quite liked the idea.

“As true as that is,” Combeferre said steadily, sitting himself down next to a disgruntled looking Jehan, “I brought some biscuits to deter Bahorel from eating other people’s food.” 

“Screw you all,” Bahorel informed them, despite not sounding the least bit put out, “I’m a fighting machine. I need my food.”

“As Bahorel seems to be more physically active than the majority of us,” Joly broke in, who had just arrived with Bossuet in hand and caught the tail end of the conversation, “It is logical that he receives a higher sugar intake. Oh no, Enjolras, is that a newspaper?”

“Yes?” Enjolras replied, who had indeed just taken out a folded paper from his bag and was spreading it out with his long fingers, “So?”

“Nothing.” Joly said quickly, although he shot Bossuet a panicked look. Feuilly snorted. He supposed the bridge picnic was going to go downhill rather swiftly if Enjolras started fuming about the injustices of the world, which would always happen when it was laid before him in print. 

“Have a biscuit, Joly.” Bahorel told him, noticeably _not_ pointing out the option of the cake tin still in Combeferre’s hand.

“No thank you, I bought oranges for everyone,” Joly responded, grinning brightly as he pulled a clump of them from his bag as if by magic, “I think we could all do with the vitamin D.”

Grantaire seemed to find this exceptionally amusing for some reason, refusing the orange and instead pulling out the hipflask that had been making fewer appearances that usual during the course of the morning. 

By the time the biscuits were demolished, Enjolras was a page through the paper, and Grantaire was over halfway through the contents of his hipflask. And Feuilly was lighting another cigarette, with half a mind on the need to ration them until payday, but the rest of his body uncaring.

“I’m just saying, it was nothing I did.” Courfeyrac was telling Combeferre, a hand draped around Jehan’s shoulders as Jehan sipped at the thermos he’d brought filled with sugary tea.

“You were the one _driving_ , Courfeyrac.” Combeferre shot back, the cake tin still on his lap as he rested on the edge of the bench, pushing his glasses further up his nose,

“Yeah, but, your car is so _old_.” 

“So you’re suggesting my car should pay the mechanic bill?” Combeferre shot dryly, not looking the least bit swayed by Courfeyrac’s argument. 

“Sure.” Courfeyrac grinned smugly, and Combeferre rolled his eyes, “That’s exactly what I’m saying. What were you doing yesterday, Enjolras? We’d have borrowed your car but you were out.” 

Feuilly could almost hear the unspoken words of ‘and we don’t know where your spare key is’. 

“Nothing important,” Enjolras said distractedly, still focused on the paper, and offered nothing else to the conversation. 

“And Enjolras wouldn’t have leant you his car.” Combeferre told Courfeyrac, and Feuilly heavily agreed. Courfeyrac would have been met with a huge, resounding no. Personal experience told him as much. “Because he’d have held no false allusions that you wouldn’t break it.”

“It may have been the road,” Jehan broke in around a sip of tea, eyes wide with something that was almost earnest. “Let’s blame the government.”

“Let’s.” Said Enjolras. 

“Oh dear, what new sob stories are circulating now?” Grantaire asked loudly, from across the stone semicircle, a glitter in his eyes, “Which politician has gone back on what they’ve said? Who’s being screwed over this time?”

It might have been fine, because, really, there _was_ always someone being screwed over, and the people in positions to help were usually the ones responsible and that was the kind of thing that made them all sick. But Grantaire’s tone was provocative and obnoxious, perhaps due to the mostly finished hipflask in his hand, and they all immediately knew where this was headed.

“What time is your date tomorrow, Marius?” Courfeyrac said quickly and it showed how desperate he was for a change of topic that he was asking Marius about the girl he hadn’t been able to stop talking about since he’d set eyes on her on Saturday.

“Seven o’clock,” Marius said immediately, although perhaps a little oblivious to the hostile look Enjolras was sending Grantaire, “In the evening. I don’t know if we should go to a restaurant, will she be hungry, do you think? I haven’t really-”

“You’re being confrontational, Grantaire.” Enjolras broke in suddenly, cutting sharply across Marius’s soft spoken musings, and Feuilly inwardly groaned, wondering if he could pretend to go and buy some more cigarettes until their tones were less hostile. “Why?”

“What do you mean, ‘why’?” Grantaire scoffed, “I’m simply pointing out that the world is a mucked up place.”

“You’re not though,” Enjolras grated back instantly, and Joly leant across with a suggesting hand to grab the newspaper still in his grip. Enjolras tugged it back, but otherwise ignored him, eyes still locked with Grantaire. “You’re saying you don’t care.”

“You’re sounding like a broken record.” Grantaire sighed, reaching in his pocket for his packet of cigarettes. Feuilly saw his fingers tremble. “Why don’t you just leave it alone?”

Feuilly reflected uncomfortably that Grantaire probably wouldn’t have said anything if he had wanted to be ignored by Enjolras.

He risked a quick look at Bahorel, who was watching Grantaire with a mildly incredulous expression,

“So how’s criminology?” Feuilly asked loudly, “Still hating it?”

“Oh no, it’s fine.” Bahorel replied equally loudly, taking advantage of Combeferre’s looking at Enjolras to snatch the cake tin back, “I’ve been making some great doodles in the lectures.”

“ _Grantaire_ ,” Enjolras tried again, stubbornly ignoring the increasingly flustered attempts of his friends to divert the situation,

“Oh, come on, Enjolras,” Grantaire said, still in the same casual tone that didn’t at all match his eyes, Accept that I don’t share your grand life changing purpose and instead have one circling more round alcohol.”

“No, you don’t have a purpose.” Enjolras snapped.

It was really quite remarkable at exactly how quickly a picnic could turn from light-hearted idiocy to such utter awkward bitterness. Bossuet let out a shrill laugh, as if that might diffuse the situation and Jehan mopped at his jumper, having spat out a bit of tea at Enjolras’s words.

They couldn’t help all looking at Grantaire.

For his credit, the smile he assumed was quick, but the flash of hurt that blazed across his face for that brief second was hard to miss. Finally, he let the smile drop slightly, the ends of his mouth curling sadly as he looked at Enjolras with soft eyes.

“Ah, Apollo,” He said, with little attempt at flippancy, “How you hurt your mortals.”

Enjolras shook his head with something torn between disgust and impatience, and dropped his gaze back to the newspaper. Feuilly wondered if he was imagining the pink tinge had crept up his neck.

The rest of them all darted looks at one another, the friction weighing thick as Grantaire just sat there, smoking, and Enjolras glared at his newspaper, jaw gritted and eyes unmoving. Jehan had worked his hands into the sleeves of his jumper, as if that would help hide him. 

“Screw this.” Bahorel announced, “I’m eating all the cakes.” 

The bridge picnic didn’t last a particularly long time after that; any light-hearted aspects that had existed before those harsh words suddenly a little too hard to claim back. One by one, everyone suddenly remembered the extremely important things they had to do that day that they’d somehow forgotten about.

Grantaire stood up with Feuilly when he loudly declared he needed to go back to finish his painting, the cigarette still in his mouth. Bahorel hastily got to his feet too, giving Combeferre a parting pat on the back as he had to clamber past him.

Neither of them mentioned what Enjolras had said, Feuilly because, despite feeling selfish, he _really_ didn’t want to go down that road, and Bahorel probably because it was just another example of Enjolras and Grantaire’s rather terrible relationship, and he didn’t want to inflame it any further. Perhaps they were both a little worried for the falsely happy jokes Grantaire kept giving as they strolled between tourists and workers, the Seine sinking back amongst the tall buildings. Bahorel definitely shot Feuilly one of his less than blasé looks as he gave his goodbyes at the end of the Rue Dauphine. 

Grantaire kept up the loud laughs and comments all the way back along the streets, and across the busy road that led to their art department. He was still smiling when they got back to the little studio they’d claimed that morning, entering through the door this time. It was only when they were back in front of their paintings, and Grantaire tossed the watercolours aside, ripping the sheet of paper from his easel, that Feuilly considered Enjolras’s words had cut far deeper than he had thought.

-

Courfeyrac found Jehan splayed out on his bed; oblivious to the undrawn curtains that let the streetlights outside brighten the darkening room as Paris got ready for dusk. He was surrounded by sheets of paper and humming under his breath as he tapped his pen thoughtfully against his chin. Music was seeping out from the earphones he’d left abandoned round his neck; his laptop pressed against a pillow.

“I feel productive just walking in here,” Courfeyrac said, and Jehan took a minute to register his presence, pulling himself out of the labyrinth of words he must have had dancing through his mind,

“Oh,” He blushed slightly as he took Courfeyrac in, a wide smile spreading across his face, “I’m not doing uni work. I probably should be though.”

“Welcome to my world,” Courfeyrac agreed, then found himself gesturing to the bed and wondering why he suddenly felt so awkward. It was a scarily unaccustomed sensation, “Mind if I sit down?”

“Of course not!” Jehan replied, shifting to his knees to sweep some of the paper from the flower printed duvet. “I didn’t realise you were here.” 

“I don’t think Joly and Bossuet believed for a second that I was here to see them.” Courfeyrac smiled, catching himself tracing the patterns on the duvet and pondering exactly why his heart was beating quite as fast as it was. “You don’t mind?”

Jehan gave a small, almost breathless laugh, the tip of his tongue caught between his teeth and Courfeyrac had never wanted to kiss him more, 

“I don’t mind.” He said, his tone slightly teasing, “I’m glad you went back on your plan of us having evenings to ourselves.”

“Well, I mainly said that so Enjolras and Grantaire wouldn’t be in the same room for as long as possible.” Courfeyrac said, and realised he’d abruptly killed the light-hearted atmosphere that had seen him and Jehan shifting closer. Dammit. 

Jehan grimaced slightly, fingers playing absently with the headphones still around his neck, what sounded like a classical piece trickling out from them. 

“That was horrible.” He said, looking terribly sad suddenly, “I don’t know if Enjolras guessed how hurt Grantaire was by what he said.”

“Enjolras is wonderfully dense about those kinds of things.” Courfeyrac sighed, sparing a moment of pity for both Enjolras and Grantaire and their total ineptness with each other, “I think he’s just determined to think Grantaire’s a waste of space sometimes. But _wow_ , I’m so certain I see them undressing each other with their eyes sometimes.”

“R certainly does.” Jehan agreed, “I hate it for him.”

Courfeyrac looked at him then, affection for the person beside him playing with his graceful fingers suddenly flaring in his heart in a way that overpowered him slightly.

He wasn’t too sure what he’d been planning on saying as he opened his mouth; whether it was about Grantaire, or Enjolras, or something else entirely. But whatever it had been was somewhat cut off by the new song that began blaring out a little louder from Jehan’s earphones, and the husky voice matching the seductive beat threw Courfeyrac slightly. _Homme_ by Brazilian Girls wasn’t quite the type of music he imagined Jehan listening to.

“Um,” Jehan said, the silence between them simply caused the song to go all the more noticed, his cheeks turning pink, “I listen to that kind of music when I’m writing some types of poetry. It helps.”

“Uh huh.” Courfeyrac smirked, “And what time of poems might they be?”

He’d been expecting Jehan to blush deeper and change the topic, as the song continued to spill into the space between them. Jehan’s face might have turned more flushed; his freckles stark against pink skin, but he looked levelly across at Courfeyrac, a not so innocent glint in his eyes as he replied,

“The erotic poems.” He said, a new tone coming into his voice, a small smile on his lips. “I don’t usually write them, but they’re interesting. Finding words that make those images.”

“Uh huh,” Courfeyrac said again, not quite as collected as the last time, having to swallow and wondering how he’d got so derailed all of a sudden, “Well, I’m all for this kind of poetry.” 

Jehan’s cheeks dimpled. 

“May I ask you something, Courfeyrac?” He asked, and damn that suggestive song was still playing and Courfeyrac _really_ wanted to bundle Jehan into his arms but Jehan’s eyes were hesitant and the twinge of worry he suddenly felt was hideous,

“Yes?”

“I didn’t want to ask this, but I feel I owe it to myself.” Jehan was looking at him, his eyes searching his face, “What’s going on here? I know I had that verbal explosion along the river, but you took me to Versailles and wouldn’t let me chip in with the mechanics bill and I know we’ve known each other for ages so maybe you feel like you owe it to me? But you did kiss me-”

“You want to know what’s happening between us?” Courfeyrac interrupted gently, side-lining him back to the point, and Jehan gave a confirming shrug, the casualness of the gesture not quite aligned with his expression, “Jehan, you’re one of the best friends I’ve ever had, and I don’t know why I realised when I did, and I think it’s always been there in the back of mind; when we watched those films together, or,” He stopped to chuckle slightly, “Or whenever I see a flower. But, I realised the other night that I _really_ like you,” Lame, his brain said instantly, and he hated that his usual aptitude for words had abandoned him when, really, he would have quite liked it for this particularly moment if for never again. 

“You used past tense when you called me a friend.” Jehan said quietly and Courfeyrac looked at him, his heart giving a stutter,

“Don’t you want to be more than friends?” He asked in as steady a voice as he could manage. 

“In an official capacity?” Jehan questioned hurriedly, fingers tightening around the headphones, “I don’t think I can fool around with you without…well, I can’t.” 

Courfeyrac took as calming a breath as he could, and reached at last for Jehan’s hand that was half hidden in his too-long jumper sleeves.

“I’m starting to think I can’t either.” He replied.

It was Jehan who kissed him that time; lips pressing resolutely against his own, soft and fierce. The music was still flowing tinny from the earphones that were pressing against Courfeyrac’s chest as he wound his arms tightly around Jehan, breathlessly pulling him closer, hands twining in his hair, stroking down to his jumper, fingers sliding up under the soft hem. Jehan gave a soft trill of happiness against his lips, his chest rising with the movement, shifting closer, happily being bundled into Courferyac’s lap as he wrapped his arms around Courfeyrac’s shoulders, and Courfeyrac’s mind was overtly conscious of the press of Jehan’s hips against his. Among other parts of his anatomy.

“Joly said the pizza’s her- oh.”

Bossuet’s voice was not at all welcome, and as Jehan turned scarlet and pulled his lips from Courfeyrac’s, Courfeyrac wondered if anyone would find Bossuet’s body if he threw it in the Seine. 

“Pizza, huh?” He said after a second of collecting his skewed thoughts, his fingers tracing patterns along Jehan’s thighs. He sent Bossuet a grin, as he shifted at the door mouthing ‘sorry,’ “Well, it depends if my _boyfriend_ wants any.”

Jehan gave a quiet exhalation of pleasure at his words.

Bossuet emitted a strangled squawk of happiness.

“Don’t eat it all,” Jehan told Bossuet, beaming, “I’m coming in a moment.”

Bossuet unleashed a string of words that didn’t really make any sense and bolted from the room, hitting his elbow on the doorframe as he went. They heard him cackling in the next room, and Joly’s concerned voice telling him to breathe. 

“‘A moment’?” Courfeyrac repeated, appraising Jehan with glittering eyes, 

“I’m afraid so,” Jehan replied, what was definitely a smirk blossoming on his slightly swollen lips as he settled back against Courfeyrac, knees pressing against his sides, “Just a make out session for now. There’s pizza at stake here.” 

“I’m very ok with that.” Courfeyrac heard the breathlessness in his tone as he ducked upwards to nuzzle against Jehan’s neck. Jehan emitted a contented intake of breath, fingers working through the curls of Courfeyrac’s hair. 

The pizza was cold when they got there.

-

Combeferre finally decided to break the peace he usually liked to keep intact.

“Enjolras,” He said, slamming the book he hadn’t been reading for the past five minutes shut, “ _Please_ stop jumping down my throat.”

Enjolras looked up from his laptop, ceasing his increasingly inimical correction of Combeferre’s comment on a trivial political matter. The white haze of the laptop screen lit the contours of his face which was assuming a genuinely surprised expression. Feuilly muttered something about ‘fucking finally,’ and rolled off the sofa to wash up his plate. 

Combeferre hadn’t exactly expected Enjolras to take up his offer on Chinese takeaway at their flat before he’d left after Jehan’s questionably enjoyable picnic. But Enjolras had been distracted, and taken Combeferre aback by accepting and had probably felt duty bound to uphold it. Even if he’d shown up with a laptop for doing university work and a foul temper that had caused Bahorel to start stress smoking out on the fire escape.

“Sorry?” He said now, looking like he’d misheard.

“That’s ok.” Bahorel muttered from beyond the window, rubbing his nose. 

“You’ve been furious at me ever since you came in here,” Combeferre told Enjolras, shooting Bahorel a that’s-really-not-helping look, “Well, at all of us.”

“We just wanted a night of fine cuisine.” Feuilly interjected, clambering out to join Bahorel in a cigarette, “Flatmate bonding time etcetera.”

“And you’re particularly terrifying tonight, mate.” Bahorel supplied. 

“And I think something else is probably bothering you.” Combeferre finished. 

Enjolras shot them all a solemn, unimpressed look, and focused on his laptop screen again,

“I’m sorry if I appeared irritable.” He said steadily, and Bahorel snorted loudly, “I didn’t mean to.”

“I’m sure you don’t mean all the things you say.” Feuilly put in daringly, and Bahorel flicked him on the shoulder to silence him. Enjolras turned to look at him, and Feuilly gave him a winning smile.

“What’s this about?” Enjolras asked slowly, brows lowering, jaw jutting defiantly as it always did when he was growing frustrated.

“Grantaire.” Bahorel said loudly, as if he wasn’t sure whether he should say it, so he was going to say it as stridently as possible, “You treated him like shit today.”

Enjolras looked momentarily speechless, blood stealing up his neck as he saw them all watching him, Bahorel and Feuilly’s faces torn between accusing and unbelieving that they were pursuing this, and Combeferre with mild eyes, determinedly controlling his expression.

“He probably didn’t notice.” Enjolras said after a moment and once again glanced back at his laptop, as if in hope he could change the topic as he assumed a dismissive expression. A little too slowly in Combeferre’s opinion, “He was drunk enough.”

“I think it’s safe to say he noticed.” Feuilly put in, sounding almost nettled. 

“And you seem to have realised you were a little out of line.” Combeferre said gently, “Well, more than a little.” 

“Well, maybe I was,” Enjolras sighed, working a tired hand carefully through his hair, “But Grantaire rarely seems to notice what I say to him.”

Feuilly groaned in a someone-else-please-get-this-one kind of way.

“I think you’re wrong.” Combeferre said lightly, and got up, plate in hands to head towards the sink. “He just likes to be stubborn because of the response it gets out of you.”

“Because I get angry at him?” Enjolras was sounding lost, frowning as his fingers played with the edges of his laptop, his eyes unseeingly following Combeferre’s progress.

“Because you notice him.” Combeferre corrected, and thought instantly that he should be dropping this topic soon. It felt intrusive and wrong. “Just talk to him ok? It’s clearly bothering you. Just don’t bite his head off.” 

“Unless he’s into that.” Bahorel decided to add.

“What does that even mean?” Feuilly whispered. 

Combeferre caught Enjolras shaking his head as he let the sink fill with warm water, an exasperation lit in his eyes that probably wasn’t attributed to Feuilly and Bahorel’s sudden discussion of preferred sensual stimulations.

Combeferre hadn’t always really been sure how far Enjolras minded what he said to Grantaire, which of his words stung him, because they both seemed to constantly be trying to test and push each other, and Combeferre was fairly convinced that was the norm they had settled to with a certain type of willingness. But as he squirted washing up liquid over his plate (pointedly ignoring Bahorel’s because he had to learn the hard way when it came to washing up) he considered that Enjolras looked a little unsettled at their earlier words. Combeferre would have put it down to the same confusion that had had Enjolras angrily venting Grantaire’s complexity to him in that coffee shop, but now he wasn’t so sure.

And he didn’t really like not being sure. 

It appeared Enjolras didn’t either. As Feuilly and Bahorel’s conversation grew increasingly cruder, he slid off his perch on the sofa, crossing to Comebeferre’s side and selecting a dry dishcloth.

“What did you mean by ‘I notice him?’” He asked, voice quiet, like a child, selecting a mug and starting to dry it.

Combeferre paused a moment and looked at him, and was met by a steely gaze that instantly replaced any juvenility Enjolras had shown, and instantly he felt a little cornered. 

“I think he feels…” He trailed off briefly, because, hell, he didn’t know what Grantaire felt. But Enjolras was looking at him with that same intensity that usually haunted his face, and Combeferre hoped it would help them all if he tried. “Well, I think he feels left out. You enthuse about demonstrations and student rallies and he never comes along when we do-”

“ _That isn’t my fault_.” 

“I know.” Combeferre said quickly, fearing for the mug in Enjolras’s hands as his knuckles whitened, his mind heating to protests over reform acts and rallies through the streets  
of Paris, “It’s not his thing.”

“I don’t do it to make better _friends_ with you all-”

“Enjolras, I am aware. Just listen, I’m trying to explain this to you.” 

He was quite satisfied with how mollified Enjolras now appeared, as he set the mug down and reached for a knife covered in soap bubbles. Combeferre suddenly decided on the necessity of clarifying this better for the safety of at least one of them. 

“Well, because he isn’t part of that, I think he feels like you don’t believe him worth your time, or that you think less of him for it. So I think he tries to set himself as far askew as he can from the rest of us to get you to notice him.”

“I...” Enjolras gave a small exhalation of vexation as he considered this, “But why does he care what I think?”

“Among other things, in case you hadn’t noticed you’re the leader of this group.” Combeferre said evasively, determined not to go too far down the route they were on. “So he’s going to care what you think.”

If Enjolras had noticed the hesitation at the start of his reply, he didn’t mention it, and he now seemed slightly alleviated as he set the piece of cutlery down, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“…What about if they do that thing with their tongue?” Feuilly’s voice drifted through the open window that was starting to make the room cold.

“Are you _still_ talking about sex?” Combeferre asked, amusedly exasperated,

“It’s much more preferable to washing up.” Bahorel replied, breathing out a cloud of cigarette smoke, “And I believe our next topic is annilingus. Care to join?”

At that, Enjolras chucked his dishcloth down, and in three long strides marched to the window and slammed it shut. 

Bahorel’s response came muffled through misting single paned windows. 

“Wow. _Rude_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pain of accidentally drinking paint water I know first hand. Sorry this chapter's a bit later than normal...uni has started back up ewww. But thanks to everyone reading this! I wish I could hug you all in a non creepy way.


	6. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marius encounters a new enemy in tomato sauce, Enjolras gets distracted by long literary pieces and Combeferre feels he really could have handled that better.

Having flopped down on his bed with a contented sigh and spent the last three minutes staring at the ceiling after a long day of lectures and an uneventful Tuesday night, the phone that buzzed loudly on Marius’s bedside table made him jump alarmingly. 

He scrambled to pluck it up and study the message that had disturbed his contented silence; a silence that probably wouldn’t exist if Courfeyrac had been home.

Grantaire wasn’t exactly the first person he had been expecting to hear from, and the violently worded nature of the message perturbed him slightly. 

_We are getting the best meatballs sandwiches in town, loser. NOW._

Having already brushed his teeth, and feeling mildly confused Grantaire was demanding his presence, Marius stared at the message for a good minute before typing a response.

_But I’m in my pajamas._

The reply came through to Marius’s battered phone in a few seconds.

_Cry me a river. Meet me at the end of your road._

Thirty seconds later the phone vibrated again.

_Screw that there are two ends to your street and you’ll somehow find a third. I’ll be outside your building in five._

Marius decided not to respond to that, and with a sigh he hauled himself unenthusiastically from the admittedly hard mattress, reaching for the clothes he’d left neatly folded on a chair Courfeyrac had salvaged from a waste receptacle and Feuilly had easily fixed up. 

It was odd Grantaire wanted to spend time with him, really, Marius considered, yanking his jumper over his head and heading for the door. Aside from Courfeyrac, he never really spent much time with them all individually. They always seemed much closer with each other than he was with them. Although tonight that had been his own fault, letting Courfeyrac go to where Joly, Jehan and Bossuet lived whilst he stayed in and tried to ignore the fact that he was incessantly nervous about tomorrow. 

He barely knew her name, and he’d never been in love before. But he was fairly sure that sickening feeling that made his heart fluttering and light and his palms sweaty and his head rush frantically was the closest thing to it. And the streets he’d walked in Paris had never looked worse ever since he’d seen her in that coffee shop; absent as they were from her tumbling pale hair and smiling lips. 

Marius walked into the figure lounging by the door to his tenement block.

“Fuck’s sake Marius.” Grantaire’s voice said; his features coming into light as Marius’s eyes adjusted to the dark of the street, “It’s not like you can’t see me. I’m wearing a _bright green_ t-shirt.” 

“Aren’t you cold?” Marius asked instantly, trotting after him as Grantaire began to lope down the street; two silhouettes against dark parked motorcycles and graffited plastered walls.

Grantaire ignored that question, shadows under his eyes deepening as the cigarette he was smoking threw his face into sharp relief. 

“Keep up, Pontmercy,” He said, “I’m going to show you where to take your date tomorrow.”

“Oh.” Marius gasped, instantly enthralled. 

The night was cold as the two of them headed in silence down Marius’s street, emerging out onto the busier roads that wouldn’t slow down until the early hours when dawn would tint the sky. They didn’t talk, Marius because he wasn’t completely sure what to say, and Grantaire because his face was set with something like pensiveness, breathing the smell of the cigarette in his turned down lips. 

They reached the Rue du Pont Louis-Phillipe, past closed banks and shops as Marius was led towards the sounds of nightlife slowly loudening as the hour wore on. 

“So what’s her name?” Grantaire finally asked as they manoeuvred around two girls already drunk and stumbling forwards on high heels, They pointed and giggled at Marius, who instantly hurried Grantaire along, suddenly acutely aware that he hadn’t washed his jumper in three days and he must look horrible. 

“Cosette?” Marius said instantly, a little unsure if Grantaire was making fun of him, because every other time he’d tried to talk about the girl who had laughed at him and asked for his number everyone had told him rather firmly to shut up. Which seemed a little unnecessary.

“Don’t ask me, I wasn’t there. Come on then, what’s she like?”

“Do you really want to know? Enjolras said he would shove his laptop down my throat if I brought her up again.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire breathed, his voice growing slightly heavy, “Well Enjolras can say a lot of things.” He exhaled the rest of his cigarette, “I want to know though.” 

“You’ll laugh at me.”

“I laugh at everything. If you don’t tell me about her, Pontmercy, the meatball sandwiches aren’t happening.”

Marius's whine of protest was a little higher than he had intended. 

“She looked at me the same time I looked at her.” He finally said quietly, having collected his thoughts in that way that frequently caused his surroundings to merge into grey background. “And…it felt…wonderful.”

Grantaire didn’t laugh like he had been expecting, and that gave him invitation to let more words topple from his mouth,

“And I’ve never felt more afraid in my whole life, is that stupid? I don’t think so, I mean, I couldn’t help it, it was like something had grabbed me and paralyzed me and her eyes were so blue, Grantaire, and then she got up and came over to me. Can you believe that? I thought I was dreaming and it still feels like I was.”

He broke off abruptly, flicking an anxious look to his companion. Grantaire definitely was looking amused, a wry smile twisting his lips as he listened to Marius, eyes fixed on the streets unravelling ahead. But he didn’t look particularly mocking for once.

“Well,” He said after a moment, gesturing for them to head right at a crossroads, “It sounds like you’re fucked Marius.” 

“What if she doesn’t like me tomorrow?” Marius found himself asking, voice quiet amid the ever steady rushing of a river of traffic and crowds, “What if I annoy her like I annoy Enjolras?”

Grantaire scoffed. 

“You annoy Enjolras because everything annoys Enjolras, unless you’re social justice or equality and then he’s annoyed at you for not being more in effect. Marius, the girl got up to get your number. Obviously something struck her fancy, and no offense, but I don’t think it was that jumper.”

“I need to wash it.” Marius mumbled, although he felt oddly placated at Grantaire’s words, as they finally drew to a halt in front of a seemingly average looking restaurant, and Grantaire leant forwards to study the menu hanging against the window, “Do you think she’ll like meatball sandwiches?”

“ _We’re_ having the meatball sandwiches. No, tomorrow with Cosette you should strongly recommend the mouclade.” 

“What if she doesn’t like mouclade?”

“She will.” 

“But if-”

“The whole menu is good, Marius. Stop freaking out, you’re making me stressed.”

Grantaire shoved the door to the restaurant open before Marius could think of another problem, and he hesitantly followed Grantaire inside, taking in a wall lined with shelves that were crammed with old books and china plates, low hanging lights bright to his eyes after the dark street.

The place smelt richly of cooking meats and frying onions as they navigated around the families, friends and couples perched on rickety chairs as they ate. Grantaire had been right, Marius mused, halting to look at one of the tables. The mouclade _did_ look good.

Grantaire’s hand came down on his arm and hauled him forwards, muttering something along the lines of it being rude to stare at other people’s food. 

It transpired Grantaire knew one of the people that were bustling about in casually slung aprons, plates laden on their arms, and in a minute or so had managed to swindle two baguettes crammed with meatballs and tomato sauce, which Marius accepted with the mournful resignation that he was probably going to stain his jumper with it.

“Marius is coming here tomorrow,” Grantaire informed the waiter cheerfully, licking tomato sauce off his thumb, “Try not to spit in his mouclade.”

Marius found it quite strange to wander the streets of Paris with Grantaire in the following half hour or so, a companionable silence settled between them as they headed towards the Seine; the air growing cooler as the night grew older. He supposed he didn’t spend enough time with him, not alone anyway. His friends had always seemed a unitary, constant presence to him, but this was surprisingly pleasant. Even if his meatball sandwich tasted a little of toothpaste. Grantaire said little, which made quite a nice change compared to Courfeyrac’s constant amicable chatting, and he didn’t perceptibly repress frustration whenever he did speak, which was usually the consequence of his conversations with Enjolras or Bahorel. Perhaps he might have noticed that the lulls in their conversations brought with it a slump to Grantaire’s shoulders, or that his half smiles that didn’t quite seem real. But Marius wasn’t an observant person, not through selfishness, although perhaps that was a small part of it, but mainly because he didn’t take the time to riddle things through that appeared relatively one-dimensional to him. Grantaire laughed, and Marius believed him. 

His phone went off in his pocket, which initially went ignored as he brushed sandwich crumbs from his trousers, shifting on the bench the two of them had settled on. However, the fourth time it went off, he decided it might be important.

Unless he considered Courfeyrac’s increasingly melodramatic texts asking him where he was, because he had _wonderful_ news, as important- which he didn’t particularly- he had been mistaken. 

“Courfeyrac keeps texting me.” He told Grantaire, who was lighting another cigarette as he looked apparently unseeingly at the murky water of the Seine flowing before them, Notre Dame glowing on the Île de la Cité just across the water; his eyes half lidded in seeming contemplation of something. Marius studied the texts a little closer, “And he keeps calling me his little quail.” 

Grantaire snorted.

“If he’s resorting to increasingly odd terms of affection I’d go find out what he wants.” 

“Do you mind?”

“Not at all. You need your beauty sleep for tomorrow, little quail.”

Marius hopped off the bench, pulling down the sleeves of his jumper (which _had_ got stained with tomato sauce) to combat the cold,

“You can walk back with me?” He offered, but Grantaire had settled back against the bench, exhaling a breath of cigarette smoke and not lifting his eyes from the surroundings before him, 

“Nah. I think I’ll stay here a while.” He said, and flicked Marius a grin, “Please don’t get mugged though.”

“I don’t think that’s a problem,” Marius admitted, taking in the hole in his jumper sleeve, and the wearing knees of his trousers. “People will probably think _I_ want to mug _them_.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, kid. Let me know how the mouclade goes down.” 

Marius left him on that wooden bench, alone spare the sounds of the distant crowds, humming traffic and passing riverboats, the two of them enfolding themselves fully in the thoughts that had been weighing their minds all evening.

The route Marius took home was quiet, or as quiet as a city could be; far-off music beating unheard to him as he walked, hands in pockets and head in the dark grey clouds above him, Grantaire’s cigarette smoke lingering in his nostrils the whole while home.

* * *

He eventually worked his way out of the tangle of sheets when the knocking on the door grew too insistent, fully playing havoc with his persistent headache.

Afternoon sunlight was flooding into Grantaire’s apartment, only half noticed begrudgingly as he had lain curled under his duvet, knees against his bare chest as his fingers absently curled around the cold glass of an empty beer bottle. His knuckles were still sore from yesterday afternoon, when he’d dragged out the kickboxing bag that he’d half ruined with painted on stickers he’d made himself; shoving it on the hook that would probably fall down one day and had savagely started to pummel rusty crescent kicks and upper cuts into it as if that would help anything. He had found his technique had grown worse over the time that lethargy had settled about him. It had reminded him of yet another thing he’d allowed to slip through his fingers because of something he couldn’t quite define in one word, but something that weighed down his whole body and exhausted his mind.

It was part of the sickening feeling lodged in his heart; a feeling that had spread to the marrow of his bones and every drop of blood in his veins. A fever that would stop his sleep and halt any inclination to _do_ anything. He was unhealthy in every sense and that thought hurt beyond imagination. 

He’d fractured what had been a tentatively pleasant link between him and Enjolras, and Enjolras in return had shattered it. He supposed it was stupid to have expected any different, surprised that he had found hope in his chest when he looked back on it, and an anger directed towards himself had filled him that it had ever been there in the first place. It had been Enjolras’s flippant dismissal of not having done anything memorable that day he’d driven Grantaire to the countryside. Because it was yet another reminder that Enjolras hadn’t felt his hands shake as he’d perched in that tree, so unbelievably conscious of the person beside him; feeling their presence as if they were on fire. But no, he’d only ever be an addition to that group of people in Enjolras’s life, and he’d reminded himself of that last night as the stars that maybe had been dead for years faded above Paris with the dark and sleep hadn’t come, as it never seemed to anymore. An aimless add-on who drank too much and didn’t seem to care about anything. 

But that didn’t stop it hurting. 

He tripped slightly on his rucksack that he’d left abandoned on the floor after his evening stroll with Marius, and was still muttering resulting atrocities under his breath when he threw the door open.

He couldn’t say whether or not he was surprised to see Enjolras; arms folded half between defence and what seemed like an uncertainty of where else to put them.

“Oh.” Grantaire heard himself say, and abruptly lost the ability to say anything else.

“Can I come in?” Enjolras asked after a brief pause, tones stiff and face blank.

Grantaire hoped his shrug was nonchalant as he stepped back to let him in, suddenly hideously conscious that he probably had pillow creases on his face, and hastily checking his striped cotton boxers and trying to ignore the painful feeling stealing through his chest as Enjolras brushed past him; his coat rough against his bare shoulder. Enjolras didn’t seem to notice Grantaire’s state of undress, unwinding the navy blue scarf from around his neck as he halted before the clutter on the floor made movement impossible. Judging by the tangled strands of his hair, and the faint flush in his cheeks, it was still windy outside.

Enjolras took in the state of his bed, and finally seemed to notice that Grantaire wasn’t dressed.

“It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.” Enjolras informed him despairingly. 

“Is it really?” Grantaire responded, not meeting his eyes as he moved off towards the kitchen, “Damn, I’d hoped to sleep until four.”

He’d expected the outtake of breath that followed that comment. 

He didn’t offer Enjolras anything from the depleted contents of his fridge, partly because he didn’t have a lot to offer him, but mostly because that painful feeling in his chest had eradicated any part of him that wanted to be nice to Enjolras. So he took out the new pack of cereal he’d bought the other day and moved off towards the bean bag, waiting for Enjolras to speak first as he stood rigidly in Grantaire’s apartment, following the other man’s movement.

“I wanted to say,” Enjolras finally began as Grantaire collapsed downwards, and then instantly seemed utterly side-tracked as his eyes fell on the low table by Grantaire’s elbow, “I…is that War and Peace?” 

“Hm? Oh, yeah. I read it over a night or two.” Grantaire replied, feeling a little incredulous that the topic had shifted away from what he was tiredly expecting, the fingers not clasped around the cereal absently touching the bruise he’d gotten yesterday afternoon climbing out of that art room window.

“What?” Enjolras seemed a little too astounded at his reply, and Grantaire felt irritation stirring in him, because no doubt Enjolras was surprised he’d completed something in his life. And something weighing about two and half pounds, no less.

“Yeah,” He said, keeping his tones cool, “I quite liked it actually. ‘He was not apprehended by reason, but by life.’ Yeah I liked it.”

Enjolras said nothing to this, fixing his direct gaze on Grantaire in that customarily and perhaps accidentally unnerving manner of his, whatever was going on in his mind incomprehensible to Grantaire.

“I’m sorry for what I said.” He finally acknowledged. 

Grantaire wasn’t facing Enjolras, having got up to kick the bean bag into a more acceptable shape, so Enjolras didn’t see his face freeze, or the way his jaw flickered angrily as his heart lept rebelliously. All he saw was the casually amused grin that he flashed him a moment later after he’d collapsed once more onto the bean bag, shoving a hand into the cereal packet. 

“Well,” Grantaire said after a few seconds, as Enjolras stood there unmoving, a statue in Grantaire’s mess of an apartment. “That _was_ nice of Combeferre to make you apologise to me.”

“Grantaire-”

“Enjolras.”

The muscles corded in Enjolras’s throat as he shot Grantaire a sharp look, either trying to control his temper or trying to gauge what was going on in Grantaire’s mind. Both, probably, Grantaire mused, heaping cereal into his mouth. It stuck dry in his throat. 

“I’m apologizing to you of my own accord.”

“But I bet Combeferre brought it up, right?”

Colour flushed Enjolras’s cheekbones, and Grantaire felt that proved that particular point.

“I didn’t mean to say what I said.” He said again, in that steady voice that would only crack when Grantaire was present. Perhaps that’s why Grantaire liked to rile him so much. He didn’t know anymore. 

“Then why did you say it?” Grantaire heard his previously cool tones slip slightly with those words, and his heart lurched at how aggrieved he sounded. He quickly assumed a weak smile. 

Enjolras’s brows were lowered as he contemplated Grantaire, the corner of his mouth turned habitually down. He didn’t say anything for a time, just studied Grantaire, who felt the sick feeling in his chest surge forth again, and his palms felt slippery against the smooth cardboard of the cereal box.

“I said it,” Enjolras said slowly, and fixed his gaze to the stained wall behind Grantaire, “Because I lost my temper.”

“That does seem to happen a lot round me.” Grantaire acknowledged bitterly, shaking the cereal packet lazily.

“You can’t pretend you don’t try to aggravate me, Grantaire.”

“No,” He sighed, setting the packet down and daring to look into Enjolras’s eyes. He couldn’t help the tenderness that crept into his expression amidst the resentment stirring his chest. His heart didn’t belong to him, after all. “I don’t suppose I can.”

“I apologise.” Enjolras said again.

Grantaire felt his shoulders drop slightly and he stared down at his hands that he’d knotted together without really realising it.

He couldn’t stop the words that came out his mouth, lurching forwards as his heart seemed to plummet downwards and a rush of hatred sprang up at himself because _why_ couldn’t he have let this go.

“You meant it though.”

“What?” 

“You’re not saying you don’t believe it’s true.” Grantaire said, and forced himself to look up at Enjolras, incredulous he was doing this, “Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t mean it. That I’m not even slightly a waste of space in your eyes.”

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ his brain told him, and his heart was hammering and breaking already because he knew what he’d see in Enjolras’s eyes and he didn’t think he could handle the agony of it.

He was right. Enjolras didn’t say anything.

He heard himself laugh, and it fell bitter and angry and hideously false into their silence.

“Ok,” He said, and slowly clambered to his feet, “Forget I asked. I’ll go back to getting drunk so you don’t have to waste time re-evaluating anything.”

He had made to move off towards the kitchen, his head reeling slightly, when Enjolras’s hand whipped out and caught his shoulder. That initially strong grip instantly softened, but the unaccustomed weight of his fingers, still pressing against his bare skin, side-tracked Grantaire momentarily. Hell, it did more than side-track.

If Enjolras had been planning to say anything, it was one of the first times in his life that he had lost his nerve. His eyes were locked on Grantaire’s, who found he couldn’t move, couldn’t say anything, could only stare back into Enjolras’s unreadable expression, those lips turned down as ever, pursing as if restraining by force whatever words he had been meaning to say. And Grantaire wondered how his heart could feel shattered and still manage to hammer so loudly in his chest. How he could feel so alive and whole looking at this student with dreams bigger than the world and still be pierced by something that seemed to both kill and splinter every single part of him. 

His eyes, having travelled to rest on Enjolras’s hand, seemed to alert Enjolras to what had evidently been an instinctive movement. His hand fell back to his side. 

Grantaire looked back, up into those grey blue eyes and felt the weak smile on his lips slip back into place.

“Please can you leave?” He said softly. “I’m sure you have to contribute something towards saving the world before the day ends.”

Enjolras took in a sharp breath, as if he had been about to speak again and perhaps his eyes lit with something that wasn’t the constant blank disdain. But then his expression shifted back to neutrality once again; a stone countenance meeting Grantaire, who had suddenly never felt more exhausted in his life. 

When Enjolras stepped away it felt like a source of warmth had vanished; and his heart was left numb, his brain thudding dully.

Enjolras paused at the door, fingers splayed against the doorframe as he glanced back over his shoulder.

“I don’t hate you, Grantaire.” He finally said.

Grantaire was too astounded to even think about replying in those first few seconds, standing where he’d frozen, beer bottles by his bare feet and the cereal packet still in his hands. 

And then Enjolras was gone anyway. 

“I wish I could hate you.” He finally muttered.

And he wondered if he’d ever meant anything less in his life.

* * *

“Shots!” Courfeyrac yelled triumphantly, and promptly slammed down a tray laden with glasses filled with a liquid that was a terrible bright green colour.

“Well, they look disgusting.” Bahorel noted cheerfully, and leant across the table to accept one.

They were taking full advantage of the cheap alcohol of Wednesday evening at the Musain, standing round one of the high tables as music none of them were particularly fond of pulsed in the background. There were only five of them that night; Feuilly working a late shift at his restaurant, and Marius on his date. Joly had a test he’d wanted to study for, which, much to Courfeyrac’s glee apparently Bossuet needed to help him with. 

“ _Please_ tell me it’s an anatomy test,” He’d sniggered down the phone to him earlier. Grantaire wasn’t there either, and none of them really needed a reason as to why. Combeferre had definitely noted the uncomfortable set of Enjolras’s shoulders when Jehan had told them Grantaire had said he was busy. Combeferre had exchanged a quick look with Jehan, the expression in poet’s eyes a clear sign that they both knew this particular argument was a little nastier than normal. 

Jehan now went to lean against Courfeyrac’s shoulder, cheeks flushed and a little unsteady on his feet, strands of his hair curling loose about his face. Courferyac’s arm immediately went round him, fingers pressing against just below his shoulder and holding him close. They had slotted together, Combeferre thought, with an ease that seemed so natural it was a wonder this hadn’t happened sooner. 

“Shots.” Courfeyrac said again, meaningfully sliding the tray towards Enjolras and Combeferre. Combeferre resigned and accepted one, the glass sticky with the contents that Courfeyrac had spilled in his overzealous depositing of the tray. Enjolras was too busy checking something on his phone to pay Courfeyrac any notice. 

“What time do you think Marius’s date will end?” Jehan asked them with a small smile, after tipping back the contents of his glass and settling for getting the remaining droplets from the bottom of it with his finger. Combeferre decided the resulting look Courfeyrac fixed his boyfriend with was something he’d rather not have seen.

“Tomorrow morning?” Courfeyrac eventually suggested, seeming to come back into focus.

“Let’s be honest, they’re probably going to get married.” Bahorel put in, playing with his empty glass, “This is Marius we’re talking about.”

“Shots, Enjolras.” Courfeyrac repeated, leaning forwards to flick his frustrated looking friend on the wrist.

“If someone says that to me again.” Enjolras muttered, but Courfeyrac pressed the green looking monstrosity into his hand anyway, and Combeferre watched with something like amusement as Enjolras sighed and drained it.

“I hope they do get married.” Jehan sniggered, tucking his hair behind his ear and leaving a smear of blue on his cheek, ink from his fingers made wet from the shot glass, “She seemed really lovely. I told him we’re here in case he’s free later.” 

“Eponine said she’d be here too.” Combeferre added, glancing down at his phone to see if she’d messaged him. He’d asked her earlier out of politeness, but more perhaps because he was still feeling a little touched from her matter-of-fact statement on Monday, when she had casually enthused his value to the world.

“Is that her?” Bahorel asked, nodding towards dark haired figure faced away from him. Before Combeferre could deter him, he'd reached over and spun her around. The girl, who was not their friend, looked a little startled, to say the least.

“Not Eponine.” Bahorel confirmed, and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder as Courfeyrac dissolved into laughter. “Oops.”

“You,” Courfeyrac snorted in between a series of sniggering, half collapsed on the table slippery with alcohol, “Are so fucking _smooth_.” 

The real Eponine arrived just as Bahorel was threatening to ram his shot glass down Courfeyrac’s throat if he kept laughing. She appeared in a good mood, smirking as she subtly tried to wrangle a few euros from Combeferre to go and buy herself a drink, and he found himself laughingly obliging and hoping his face didn’t show he had noticed how exhausted she looked underneath her smiles. Perhaps quite a few of them were little strained tonight, he noted, glancing sideways at Enjolras who was only half smiling at Courfeyrac’s steady stream of jokes, fingers pressing tight around his phone that was still on whatever news article he had been reading. He found himself wishing he could fix all of the things that were slumping his friends’ shoulders, cancel out everything that broke their hearts or made them cry. And it hurt that he couldn’t. That some things only they could fix.

So he just laughed with Eponine when she returned, and didn’t ask Enjolras about Grantaire, or anything else that had caused this thinly veiled glumness, and was eternally glad for Marius stumbling over towards their table a half hour or so later, tripping on untied shoelaces. 

“Marius!” Courfeyrac squawked loudly, straightening from planting kisses on Jehan’s forehead, “Why aren’t you having sex?”

“How did your date go?” Jehan asked, his fingers still knotted in Courfeyrac’s. 

“Tell us everything.” Courfeyrac finished before Marius could answer, then amended himself after a moment, “Well, the dirty bits mainly. Yeah, go for the dirty bits.”

“I’m getting another drink.” Eponine murmured, and Combeferre stared rather blankly after her. Enjolras already looked rather prepared to strangle Marius as he slotted himself into the space of the table beside him, beaming.

“It was _wonderful_.” He told Courfeyrac, accidentally putting his elbows in the spilled remnants of drink, as he cupped his chin in his hands, “ _She_ was so wonderful. And she knew the restaurant I wanted to go to, so it didn’t matter that I got a bit lost, and she was so fun, and she liked the mouclade like Grantaire said she would-”

“Don’t get Grantaire started on mouclade.” Bahorel sighed, “I don’t know where he finds the money to eat out so much.”

“But why no sex?” Courfeyrac almost whined, batting at Marius’s arm to get his attention,

Marius evidently didn’t dignify that with an answer.

“Where is Grantaire?” He asked, looking to the bar, “I need to say thank you. Cosette- isn’t that a lovely name? I tried to guess what it was in that café before she told me but I would never have said that. Anyway, Cosette arranged for us to meet on Friday and I need Grantaire to tell us where to go. I can’t believe it’s only Wednesday. Do you think if I went round to his apartment-?”

Marius might have rambled a little further, but at that moment Enjolras let out a large exhalation of annoyance, and without a comment pushed away from the table and headed towards the bar. To his credit, Marius didn’t seem to have noticed the sudden noise had broken off his words, and seemed contented to happily stare at something over Combeferre’s shoulder, still beaming. 

Bahorel met Combeferre’s eye and let out a low whistle. 

“We should be in a television show right now.” He muttered.

Combeferre, who took in Jehan sliding closer to Courfeyrac, probably mostly out of will, and slightly because his descent into inebriation was strengthening, and then glanced to the tight set of Enjolras’s shoulders as he stood at his new location at the bar, couldn’t help agreeing. 

“I’m going to, uh,” Combeferre indicated, gesturing towards Enjolras and beginning to manoeuvre through the clusters of people that were growing in frequency as the hour wore on. 

He would have walked up to Enjolras, have finally mustered to courage to ask about Grantaire, and perhaps have asked him to be just a little bit more supportive for Marius. He would of. But his eyes accidentally drifted over Eponine, who was perching on a barstool, a new drink in her hand. And he couldn’t help noticing the way she was looking over at Marius, or the complete lack of happiness in her gaunt face. 

And then, before he knew it, he was standing in front of her, sliding onto the seat a metre or so away.

“Are you okay?” He asked, hoping he didn’t sound completely meddling, because that was the opposite of what he wanted, and immediately he felt this was probably a mistake. 

Eponine shot him a toothy grin,

“I’m always okay.” She said, leaning back on one elbow, her drink still clasped in her hand, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well,” Combeferre hesitated, then decided he’d already started digging and he may as well continue, “It’s just, Marius…and, well, you two have always seemed quite close.”

Eponine looked stunned for a second or two, turning to take Combeferre in as if she’d just really realised he was there. And then a small smile worked on her face. Even if her dark eyes muted dolefully. 

“We’re not that close.” She eventually said, running a finger absentmindedly around the rim of her glass, “Not really.” She fixed Combeferre with one of those direct looks of hers, “And he’s met someone. And that’s fine.”

Combeferre really had no idea what to say to that, and caught himself contemplating the possible magnitude of her heart. Eponine, who was drained and world weary and looked far too exhausted for someone so young, but who could look over at Marius and not hate him for not looking right back. 

“You know,” He finally said slowly, and she looked up, rubbing a knuckle over her heavily lined eyelid. “I wasn’t going to stay here much longer. And I have a craving for some chips or something. Want to join?” 

She seemed to consider that a moment, her thin lips pursed, but then they slowly twisted into her lopsided smile,

“Yeah.” She said, draining the glass and hopping off the barstool, “I would.”

Bahorel looked positively horrified when Combeferre informed him that he was leaving, stood as he was between Marius who was busy enthusing the advantages of candlelight and the way Cosette’s hair had looked like spun gold in it, and Jehan and Courfeyrac, who appeared to be making up for all the times they hadn’t been tangled in each other’s arms and kissing fiercely.

“Don’t leave me with these people,” He stage whispered. 

But the cheap alcohol seemed to cancel out any of Bahorel’s despair at his company, and it was just Eponine and Combeferre who exited the bar onto the busy street a minute or so later. The nights were slowly getting warmer now; the air almost balmy as they headed down past the low line of bollards that spanned over cobbles, Eponine’s hands in the pockets of her parka as she hummed under her breath. It was a comfortable silence that had fallen between them, and Combeferre felt a smile curl onto his mouth as he looked up at the brief, blurry glimpse of the constellations he could name, only just visible in the tainted city sky. 

He bought a large portion of chips from a vendor at the end of the street; the warmth of hot food wrapped in paper almost burning his hands as they ambled nowhere together in the streetlights. They wandered through the city, at times finding themselves away from the main cluster of bars and nightclubs in places where a rare tranquillity found them, until the traffic re-joined them and the music and laughter met their ears once more. 

“These aren’t too bad.” Eponine told him through a mouthful of potato, and Combeferre hoped she hadn’t noticed he was eating them with a meticulous sluggishness so that she might take more. “Thanks for sharing.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Waling a little further, the Square Paul Langevin unfurled to their left, its gates locked and the rumble of traffic before it disrupting any peace the park might had attained. 

“So, how’s saving the world going?” Eponine asked, as she ran a hand over the railings, glancing up at the trees whose buds were shyly beginning to unfurl with vivid green leaves. 

“It’s…going well?” Combeferre replied, certain that was not the correct way of phrasing it, “Enjolras is spreading some flyers about campus, talking to people, you know. Outreach propaganda and the like. We’re hoping for a student walkout in a few weeks.”

“Should I even ask what about? Oh, you should get arrested, you know. Doesn’t that help causes?”

“I don’t think-”

“I bet Enjolras has got arrested before. He has right?”

“I’m not sure he’d want me to comment.” 

She let out a low exhalation of amusement, and leant across to grab another chip. 

“ _You’ve_ certainly never been arrested before.” She informed him, giving him a quick onceover. 

“Why’s that?” Combeferre asked, wondering why on earth he felt rather nettled.

“You look so _clean_.”

Combeferre couldn’t help laughing at that, in danger of choking on the chip he’d just put in his mouth.

“Do I really look that boring?” He asked, more amused now. Eponine was sniggering under her breath.

“You really don’t want me to answer that.” She informed him. 

They were both still laughing when her phone buzzed loudly in her pocket, followed by a chiming, tinny ringtone. She sighed heavily as she took it out, her eyes rolling as she took in the number before accepting the call.

“What?” She asked tartly, before the caller could get a word in. Combeferre rustled the paper the chips were balancing on in the hopes she wouldn’t think he was trying his hardest to hear the voice at the other end. There was something about Eponine that made him insatiably curious, perhaps because he didn’t understand her at all; because he lived such a utterly different life to her.

“No,” She was saying, pulling a face that was torn between irate and exasperatedly entertained, “Stop calling me ‘babe’, it’s annoying…well where are you now?...I’m with a friend we’re talking about getting arrested…Ok, fine.”

And without another word, she hung up, stowing the phone back in her pocket.

“Montparnasse is back.” She told Combeferre, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear. Any trace of the laughter they had shared was now gone from her face.

“He was away?” Combeferre asked blankly. 

Eponine blushed, as if she had revealed something she hadn’t meant to. She shook her head slightly, as if she were reprimanding herself.

“He had stuff to do.” She said hurriedly, which didn’t leave Combeferre any more placated.

“Right. You know, you don’t have to meet him if you don’t want to.”

Eponine suddenly flashed him a sharp look.

“Who says I don’t want to?” She asked, her tones suddenly cold. 

“No one, I just-”

“I can handle myself thank you, Combeferre. And just because someone is exceptionally shady, doesn’t mean I don’t want to hang out with them, you know.”

With an exhalation of breath, she wiped the grease coating her fingers on the sides of her coat, and glanced over her shoulder, a pucker between her eyebrows as she scowled. 

“I think I’m going to go.” She announced, her tones still waspish as she refused to meet his eye. “Thanks for the food.” 

“Eponine, I didn’t-”

“I’ll see you around, Combeferre.” 

And with that, she was marching away down the street the way they had strolled so peacefully only a few minutes ago, the soft clicking of the soles of her boots hurried and deliberate. Combeferre half wanted to go after her, to take back his stupid assumptions about her and the incomprehensible world she inhabited. But he didn’t. He just stood there with the locked dark park by his side, the lazy gurgle of a fountain sounding just over the chill of the railings that were skimming his elbow, as a siren blared in the warm night air; trees rustling with the ghost of a half-hearted breeze.

“Well done.” He told himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ewww exams be gone this is all I want to do with my time. Thank you to everyone commenting/reading/glancing at this! You're all making my life and I love you all very much ~~my little quails~~


	7. You knew the river would flow again after it was frozen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein twister and Rihanna are forbidden, seascapes aren't popular and maybe Paris grows slightly more sunny.

She’d been conscious of him leaving as the sun had settled determinedly at her window; washing her tiny apartment with soft yellow light. Perhaps that had roused her to something like consciousness, but she was sure she hadn’t imagined the gentle whisper of movement behind her and the kiss placed on the line of her jaw, that brought with it the faint clouded scent of cigarettes and cologne. She supposed that kiss had been a thing of impulse, of passing fancy, and when Eponine eventually got out of bed she could barely remember it had happened. 

She’d never really asked Montparnasse about whatever it was that would pass between them now and then. If there was anything at all beneath his kisses, as resolute dangerous hands softly grasped her body some nights, his breathing prickling warm against her skin, her legs clasping him there as she pressed herself feverishly against him. There probably wasn’t. The times he spent with her were too erratic and meaningless, but she didn’t mind. It had settled somewhere between indulgence and pattern, so she’d never really questioned it. Perhaps it helped with Marius, or perhaps it didn’t. She preferred not to analyse things to hard. Maybe she was afraid of what she might discover.

So that may have been the reason her temper had snapped last night with Combeferre, why she’d shoved aside the small fizz of contentment she’d felt rising in her heart as they’d laughed together and she’d felt young and happy. 

She worked a hand through her hair as she collapsed backwards onto the pillows already flattened from the weight of bodies and sleep; working the duvet back up to her chin as the sunlight her eyes hadn’t quite adjusted to seemed to stain the room with a yellow glow. She could already hear the rumble of the city outside, the Avenue Ledru-Rollin rushing with motorcycles and cars, horns persistent and angry even in the early hours of the morning. The people themselves were too tired to speak yet, the sounds of chatter and calling vacant as the clock on her bedside table ticked its way determinedly towards seven fifteen. 

She’d reached across the bed for her phone before she really knew why, perhaps to see if she’d missed anyone calling her, even though no one ever really did, unless Marius had locked his keys in his apartment again. 

Combeferre’s name was near the top of her contact list, a cluster of white numbers against a grey background that still made her stomach flip uncomfortably, because somehow his face leapt to her mind. The way he looked stern, but his eyes were always glinting with something she found herself curious to know, and she didn’t understand why she wanted to take back what she had said so badly, but she really, really did.

She’d pressed call before she could even think it through, one of those actions her mind jumped to that she couldn’t control, like when she found stolen chocolate bars in her pockets, or when she’d find herself on the other side of Paris, walking amongst strangers and a little bit lost.

It wasn’t even seven thirty, but he still picked up on the second ring.

“Eponine?” His voice was halting, almost a little wary, and thankfully not weighed down by sleep. And of course, she thought, he’d already been awake, “Are you alright?”

“Uh.” She suddenly realised she had no clue as to what she had been meaning to say. She wouldn’t apologise, because she felt she had nothing to apologise for. She regretted the way she’d snapped at him, but not so much the words she’d said.

But Combeferre spoke when she didn’t, her fingers working over the duvet as her tongue searched fruitlessly, playing with the sheets edges.

“Look,” His voice was hurried, embarrassed, “I’m sorry for yesterday. I assumed and that was so stupid. It won’t happen again.”

She faltered slightly, because perhaps he should be sorry, and he _had_ made her angry. But the heat of that anger had left her in a few strides after she'd left him, and it had gone completely when she’d arrived at her front door and found Montparnasse lounging against it; that tousled clandestine boy from the underworld of Paris. Perhaps with Combeferre’s insinuation, she’d been angry at the reminder, she’d considered, as she’d pushed past Montparnasse to unlock the door with a habitual sigh and couldn’t help the expectant shiver that came with the kiss he placed on the nape of her neck. The reminder that there were things that rattled around in her heart and drove her mind half mad when she stopped to consider them. Things she couldn’t control and things she didn’t want to feel, and they hurt, so much. 

But she didn’t want to admit any of those things, not to Combeferre and not to anybody, so in the end she heaved a small smile and said,

“Truce?” 

“Truce.” Combeferre’s voice agreed, and she could almost feel his smile, “Well, I’m going to make some coffee. Have a good day, Eponine.”

She liked that he wasn’t chatty, liked that he never used a hundred words where one would do, liked that he was probably a little too reliant on coffee, and liked that she hung up with a warm feeling in her chest that she wasn’t particularly used to. And above all she liked the smile she caught herself wearing.

She often had days where she couldn’t get out of bed. Where she would just give into the overwhelming urge to stay underneath the covers; her senses blockaded by the pillows and sheets so the world couldn’t get to her. Where the noises in the street below her window were just that, and she forgot what fresh air smelt like or the way strangers would  
stare back at you as they always did in Paris. 

But today her feet met the rough carpet of her tiny bedroom floor, and she could face her reflection when she caught sight of it in the mirror. And she felt, that today, she could leave the house to be with the spinning world. She couldn’t have attributed that all to Combeferre, because that was unreasonable. But the alleviation of the surprisingly heavy weight of regret for what had unfolded yesterday was lifted from her chest, and her heart felt lighter as it paired with that contented ache that was spanning her limbs from last night. Whatever the cause for that sudden slither of contentment that for now slotted over her fears and apprehensions, it was the thing that drove her to the steps outside her front door. She was met by the soft waves of the sun that fell dappled through growing leaves of the trees lining the road, and she smiled back at it.

* * *

With Monday came the end of the latest art project Feuilly and Grantaire had dually long been suffering over. Whilst it primarily meant that their endless mountains of canvasses and paper and folders were no longer wanted at the art department, the end of deadlines seemed to predominantly invite the most complaining Bahorel ever made about the distance between the flat and the art department, because he somehow always got enlisted to help carry an endless extent of paintings across the city.

“I mean,” He growled that afternoon, practically batting a tourist aside with a huge oil painting of a seascape, “Why can’t you think about the size of this shit when you’re painting it?”

“We do.” Feuilly shot back instantly, who was walking beside him with a precarious stack of paper layered in his arms. “Can’t have you falling out of shape, now, can we?”

Grantaire was trailing behind the two of them, a cigarette clenched between his lips as he walked with a thumb slotted carelessly in the ridge of the canvas slung behind his back. He had grown rather maddeningly used to Feuilly and Bahorel’s amicable bickering over the last few days, because they were the two he had found himself most in the company of when he was less inclined to be by himself and enfolded in wonderful and toxic self-pity. It wasn’t that he’d shut himself off from the others, because he couldn’t. He’d still met them when they’d gone to buy drinks, or when Jehan had determinedly called an impromptu study group at the Luxembourg when the sun was almost hot on Saturday, but he’d felt himself spending most of those times in a daze, focusing on whatever drink was in his hand and letting the burning taste of tequila or vodka distract himself from anything around him.

Well, perhaps he’d had a little more specificity in mind than _anything_. 

For his part, Enjolras seemed to have momentarily abandoned his before zealous attempts at fixing everything that had passed between them, as he tried to fix everything he came across. There had been no more knocks at his door in the afternoon when he’d lain in bed, which he’d been thankful for in a way, because his apartment was too _fucking crammed_ with memories of Enjolras for him to take any more. He couldn’t sleep in that bed, couldn’t stand to be lying where Enjolras had, couldn’t even fucking bear to look at _War and Peace_ now, which he’d flung across the room and left buried amidst the mess. 

And he’d tried. He really had. He’d shut himself in that apartment, he’d walked alone through the streets, got drunk with Feuilly and Bahorel, and had only seen him in brief snatches. But it had left him crawling with a new kind of emptiness he’d not felt before; a new splinter that seemed to pierce his heart in a whole new agonizing angle. The hours being with Enjolras were horrible. The hours being _away_ were hell. So after two days (two _days_ his brain had stuttered at him and at that he’d found himself laughing some hollow and ugly laugh because of all the things that made his hands shake with cravings perhaps Enjolras was the worst) he’d dragged himself back into that circle of friends like he’d left some dark corner and was faced with the sun once again. Even if he could barely look at it. The thing twisting his heart was so sickeningly poisonous and unhealthy and he’d somehow infected someone as untainted and strong as Enjolras with it, quietly clinging and strangling like spineless ivy to the sturdy bark of a tree. Perhaps it was because of that purity, that Enjolras was everything he wasn’t; that he was beautiful and full of zeal and fire and expected so much from the world, perhaps it was that that made him cling in the first place. But whatever it was, he was too far entangled to pull himself free. And _god_ why on earth would he want to?

“Well, _fuck_.” Bahorel declared as the canvas overbalanced in his hands and hit against a businessman happening to push past at that moment as he rushed towards the metro. It was probably the expletive and not the forceful introduction to oil seascapes that caused the furious, disapproving glare.

“How did you even manage that?” Feuilly asked crossly.

“Oh, I’m _sorry_ , would you care to trade?”

“Do you need a hand?” A new voice broke across their verbal sparring. A voice that Grantaire’s brain had treacherously been replaying over and over in his mind as he’d lain awake, always unbearably awake, _you don’t have a purpose, I don’t hate you Grantaire._

No, no, no, _no_. Grantaire’s mind got somewhat stuck on that determined line of thought as he looked across at Enjolras who had seemingly materialised red and gold from amongst all the grey business suits. Grantaire focused on the line of incredulity so that he could ignore how his heart leapt nauseatingly. 

“Hey.” Feuilly grinned easily, evidently not joining Grantaire with the sensation that his throat had closed up at Enjolras’s sudden appearance, “That would be grand. Bahorel seems to have lost his only streak of usefulness.”

“Let’s see you go a week without getting mugged.” Bahorel muttered. 

Enjolras gave a small nod, accepting the stack of paper swung at him by Feuilly, who grabbed the other end of the canvas. And after a second Enjolras turned almost haltingly towards Grantaire, as if forcing himself to acknowledge that he was there.

“Surprisingly,” Grantaire said, readjusting the stack of sketchbooks clasped in the hand not holding his canvas, “I can actually handle this _herculean_ task by myself.” 

Enjolras’s lips tightened as he turned away. Grantaire felt himself excel a breath he didn’t remember drawing in. 

“Have you finished with lectures for today, Enjolras?” Feuilly was thankfully ploughing over anything that could have resembled awkward silence amid the car horns and sirens and rattle of the wind on street signs and café tarps, “Cos we’re dumping the last of this then getting a drink at Courf’s café.” 

“I need to get some work done.” Enjolras replied in his abrupt manner, glancing down occasionally, almost curiously at the paintings in his arms as they waited to make their way over the Boulevard Saint-Germain, “But I can spend an hour or so with you all.”

“Wonderful.” Grantaire quietly informed the sketchbooks at his side, not daring to look up to see if Enjolras had heard him.

It took them a further ten minutes or so to reach the road where Bahorel, Feuilly and Combeferre rented a small apartment on the fourth floor of a tenement block. Ten minutes of Grantaire trailing behind and trying not to look at the tight line of Enjolras’s shoulders, or the way his fair hair curled over that red blazer, the one he’d worn when he’d sat in the car beside Grantaire, and Grantaire had found himself sleeping, and sleeping peacefully for the first time in what had seemed like far too long. 

Well, perhaps he didn’t try that hard. 

For reasons partially down to convenience, and that his flat really couldn’t hold any more unneeded excesses, but not so secretly mostly down to sheer laziness, Grantaire had been piling his project in amongst Feuilly’s pieces back at his apartment. He knew he’d later regret it when he had to take it all back himself, but lethargy was ironically something he couldn’t be bothered to overcome. So he followed the three of them up the staircases because they couldn’t fit the seascape in the elevator, and joined them in wincing at the sound of board scraping against the plastered wall.

“Let this be the first lesson as to why you don’t take art, ok?” Bahorel said as he shouldered their door open after Feuilly had pressed the key in the lock. “I think I should just  
outline that now.”

“Law requires much more paper.” Feuilly told him, navigating the doorway with the canvas tilted at a diagonal, Bahorel at the other end, “Not that you would know, as you never seem to be studying it.”

“Ha fucking _ha_.” 

They pushed the canvas across the threshold, stumbling forwards and leaving Grantaire brushing shoulders in that battered hallway with Enjolras, something he somehow hadn’t foreseen.

He staggered forwards hastily. 

It didn’t take them long to stack the art against the far wall, away from the draft issuing from the window on the other side of the apartment that would leak slightly in rainstorms. Feuilly and Bahorel had kept up their argument on which course destroyed the most trees, in between stacking endless heaps of artwork, and Grantaire was glad to be out on the street once more a few moments later, because the apartment had brought on a new discomfort at it brought him so close to Enjolras, arms brushing as they’d accidentally gone to put their burdens down at the same moment, and a horrible feeling jolting his chest as he’d refused to meet Enjolras’s gaze. If it had even been directed at him, which was just another hope the last week or so had seemed to instil in him, as if Enjolras owed him anything.

The café where Courfeyrac was working his usual Monday afternoon shift enveloped them with the warm scent of coffee and the baking of some unidentifiable pastry. Courfeyrac himself was nowhere to be seen, but Jehan was over in the corner by the stretching windows, blockaded on a low wicker sofa by a pile of books and several empty coffee mugs, eyelids drooping as he slouched with his chin resting on his hand.

“I may be having a caffeine crash.” He informed them as they headed over, his chin slipping from the palm of his hand, “Because I can feel my eyelids flickering.” 

“Essay deadline tomorrow then?” Feuilly asked, sinking into the chair opposite him and Jehan nodded fervently, sweeping his hair out his eyes. 

“Jean Racine is lucky I like him so much.” He sighed, pointing ink stained fingers towards a book on the poet and playwright, “I think my heart is beating a little too fast.”

“It’s only a problem when you go into cardiac arrest.” Grantaire told him, staying on his feet, picking his way warily around Enjolras, too conscious, always too conscious of where he was standing. 

Courfeyrac eventually hurried over to them, casting guilty looks over his shoulder as he sank down onto the wicker sofa next to Jehan.

“Quick Bahorel sit down,” He said, tugging the taller student’s sleeve, who complied with a put-upon groan, “Hide me from the counter.”

“Has it occurred to you that you can talk to us _and_ serve customers?” Enjolras asked with something like wry amusement. He’d settled down onto the sofa opposite with Feuilly, long fingers laced together, and all Grantaire could do was stand there like an idiot, just out of Enjolras’s periphery vision. He didn’t miss the way Courfeyrac’s eyes had flicked to him quickly when Enjolras had spoken, and a shot of irritation had sparked in him as he realised he was behaving as if he were as brittle as he couldn’t help but feel he sometimes was. Marius hadn’t looked at him like that, and perhaps that was one of the main reasons he’d called him on Tuesday, when he could no longer bear to walk the streets alone with the same words turning over in his head. _You don’t have a purpose. I don’t hate you, Grantaire._

“Multitasking was not one of the many gifts bestowed upon me, Enjolras.” Courfeyrac was saying, an arm winding around Jehan’s shoulders as he flicked another glance towards the counter. “And I’m disappointed Bahorel doesn’t have charcoal on his face like the last time he helped you move art.” 

“I had that shit on my face for the _whole_ day.” Bahorel reminded them. “I hope it’s something you can still find amusement in when you’re all in hell.”

“Definitely.” Jehan grinned brightly, and then hiccupped loudly. “Wasn’t that the day you had your graded presentation?” 

“Anyway,” Feuilly said quickly, as if to spare Bahorel the pain of resurfacing regrettable memories. As he spoke he grabbed Grantaire’s arm and pulled him down onto the sofa arm. Grantaire didn’t know whether he meant the mumbled half-hearted abuse he shot him in return. “We were thinking of celebrating the fact that I’ve survived eating acrylic paint far more than I should be sanitary for another term. Do you know if Marius is free tonight, Courfeyrac?”

“I guess.” Courfeyrac replied, then his face split into a wide grin, “Although whether he’ll be _mentally_ free is another matter. He’s in _love_.”

“Sickening.” Grantaire commented dryly, watching Courfeyrac’s fingers absentmindedly trace over the pattern on Jehan’s jumper. 

“Well drag him with you if he’s around, I haven’t seen him in a while.” Feuilly told him, taking out his packet of cigarettes, knees jogging as if he was impatient to go outside and smoke one of them. “I’d say it’s a house party, but as we only seem to hang out with ten other people in the whole of Paris it’s more of a low key social gathering.”

“With alcohol.” Bahorel confirmed.

“And twister?” Courfeyrac asked hopefully.

“ _No_.” 

Courfeyrac didn’t manage to stay hidden between Bahorel and Jehan for very long after that, and soon he was rushing over to the counter as his co-worker left the room at the back, hastily assuming a look of innocence that could never be quite entirely believable. And when Feuilly scrambled out of his seat, muttering about cigarettes, he left a metre between Enjolras and Grantaire. Grantaire’s feverish, exhausted mind seemed to bridge that distance, unsure if it was too large or too small, his eyes determinedly focused on Jehan’s books, but his brain shoving forth the brief glimpse he’d snatched of Enjolras sitting there; the afternoon sunlight filtering in between the printed lettering on the windows to glint between his curling strands of hair.

He felt it was some mark of courage that he stayed where he was, crushing the urge to bolt out the door just a few metres away. Or perhaps that would have been the braver option. Either way, he stayed planted rigid on the arm of that sofa, every small movement Enjolras made reverberating through his mind as he stared determinedly at anything, anything but him. And if he slipped the contents of the hipflask stowed in his rucksack into the one of the coffees Courfeyrac brought over, then that was something that went unremarked and made it just a bit easier to sit in that café for a half an hour that seemed determined to slip into what felt like years. 

Two days he’d managed, he reflected, as Feuilly came back from his cigarette, laced with the scent of tobacco. Two days without seeing the figure just blocked from view by Feuilly’s lanky build. And he couldn’t for the life of him decide if that was an impressively long span of days or pitifully short now that he thought about it.

After all, he sighed to himself, half listening to Jehan reading out a paragraph of his essay with a furrow between his brows because he didn’t think it flowed quite right. After all, it was a scientifically proven and obvious fact that no one could live without their sun.

* * *

It was quiet for a Monday night as Combeferre and Enjolras wound their way home, an edge of cold still biting the air no matter how hard summer was trying to bring forwards leaves on the trees and clear blue in the skies throughout the day. 

They’d just spent an indecipherable amount of time in the National Library, a common haunt for the two of them as they poured over manuscripts and books just for the simple reason of wanting to. Combeferre would love the place for the fascination he found in the Salle Labrouste, staring upwards at the columns and arching domes spiralling above him, as well as the old texts he’d run gentle hands over, absorbing what they had to show him. Perhaps Enjolras didn’t spare as much time for the beauty of the architecture, like he’d never really pause to take in Paris shining on a summer’s day, or its muted colours in winter. Like he’d never count the padlocks on the Ponts des Arts, left glinting by couples in the streetlights, or stop to smell the rich aromas from cafes or the heavy scent left lingering after the rain. It was simply that he never stopped, and had never wanted to. But with books, and what they provided, Combeferre and he had found common cause, the first thing that had driven their friendship into years of a mutual understanding and a closeness which neither of them had remembered the exact moment of its beginning, but would probably be there forever, even if they stopped renewing their bought annual readers cards, or no longer absorbed knowledge side by side.

“I think Bahorel and Feuilly were planning on ordering in Chinese,” Combeferre said, checking his watch as he slung his bag over a shoulder, “Want to come round for food before?”

“Before what?”

“Their house party.” Combeferre said in a level voice, as if he’d expected Enjolras to have forgotten. “Or as Feuilly likes to keep reminding me: their low key social gathering.”

“Oh.” Enjolras said, trying to remember when he’d been invited to this event. He felt he’d had a lot weighing on his mind recently, and smaller things tended to start slipping by him when that happened, “Chinese would be good. I’m not sure how much food I’ve got back at mine.”

“Except those terrible granola bars.” Combeferre grinned gently, stepping aside for a cyclist.

“Get off the pavement.” Enjolras told them curtly, and then turned back to his friend, “And apparently I missed the part where granola bars are my defining culinary preference.” 

“Well, I suppose they always seem to be in your cupboards, so maybe you never eat them.” Combeferre considered, casting a pensive look over at the Seine on their right, the Ile Saint-Louis just visible through the trees, old buildings mixed with cranes that always seemed to be renovating something. “I’ll make an effort to dispel those rumours for you.”

Enjolras felt himself smiling weakly at his friend, and shook his head as the Quai Saint-Bernard split off into the Boulevard Saint-Germain and the Quai de la Tournelle up ahead, zebra crossings and traffic lights dominating the expanse they now found themselves in. 

It was a rather long walk back to the apartment Combeferre shared with Feuily and Bahorel, particularly with the new supply of loaned books weighing down Enjolras’s arms, but any brief stretches of silence between them fell easy with the long practiced comfortableness of not having to say something to the other. Combeferre felt like someone who had always somehow been in Enjolras’s life, a presence Enjolras felt was as constant and permanent as the sky above his head. There was no one he’d rather turn to just for the simple desire to talk to someone, to map out the thoughts and wishes that filled his head and heart, except for perhaps Courfeyrac, who would appear out of nowhere to grow a sincere streak every once in a while. It was a comforting thought to have someone who seemed to understand him so fully in his life, particularly when he himself never felt the most perceptible of people.

His relationship with Grantaire proved that point well enough. 

When Combeferre unlocked and pushed open the door to his apartment, they both found themselves looking at Bahorel and Feuilly splayed out on the ground, the latter in a headlock, a cigarette still clamped impressively in his lips as he swung a hopeful elbow towards Bahorel’s face.

“I told you not to smoke inside.” Was all Combeferre had to say to the scene before him, shutting the door behind him as he gestured for Enjolras to put his books on the small kitchen table that folded up against the tiled wall in an attempt to facilitate the cramped space.

“This was an entirely unprovoked attack.” Feuilly complained, and Enjolras saw with mild amusement that he was still wearing his restaurant apron, as he continued to wrestle with Bahorel, “I was set upon, I tell you.” 

“You guys are back in time for a takeout.” Bahorel told them good-naturedly, now practically sitting on Feuilly, “Indian or Chinese?”

“Chinese.” Combeferre replied, flicking the switch on the kettle.

Feuilly’s response was cut off by Bahorel’s arm swinging across his face. 

What sounded like fifty fists started hammering on the door just as the last of the prawn crackers were being rescued by Bahorel from the plates Feuilly was trying to take through to the kitchen. The apartment block was one of the common designs that should have held off visitors on the front step until they’d been buzzed in, but it seemed Enjolras’s flat was the only one that seemed to actually possess that function. For that reason, five people tumbled through the threshold when Bahorel opened the door, his mouth filled with prawn crackers.

“Evethnink.” He said, as Bossuet, Joly, Marius, Courfeyrac and Jehan spilled into the small flat, the draft from the corridor sweeping in with them. 

“We’re ready for the low key social gathering.” Bossuet announced, spreading out his arms triumphantly as he staggered back to his feet. “Whatever that may entail.”

“We brought food too.” Joly added, “Although it stinks of takeaway in here.”

“And your hallway stinks of stale cigarettes and damp.” Courfeyrac politely informed them, as Enjolras picked himself up from his cross legged position on the floor by the coffee table to shut the door that was still emitting a chill, “So I sprayed some cologne out there.”

“And now it smells of stale cigarettes and damp _and_ Versace.” Jehan finished brightly.

Enjolras reached the door the exact moment Grantaire materialised in the cold hallway, shivering slightly, his fingers resting around the neck of a bottle of whiskey stowed in his rucksack. 

Enjolras abruptly froze, hand on the door, feeling his jaw jutting on instinct, as if he were preparing himself as he normally did for whatever Grantaire was going to say to him. But this time it wasn’t born from that, and it was something akin to discomfort that accosted his movements, and planted him on the spot. Because he’d been noticing more than he cared to that Grantaire had been avoiding him, and that had left an unusual prickle of discontent about him, which he couldn’t have fully explained, not that he’d stopped to evaluate it, because he didn’t stop. But now Grantaire had come to a halt too, hands gripping his bag and eyes locked on his with no trace of his usual lopsided smirk. And Enjolras couldn’t quite pull his eyes away, jaw still gritted but his heartbeat oddly erratic.

“Capital R!” Bossuet’s voice cut across whatever had been passing invisible and indescribably between Enjolras and Grantaire, and Grantaire pulled his eyes from him, turning what looked like a forced grin on Bossuet.

“I brought alcohol.” He said, and headed past Enjolras without a second glance. His shoulder brushed against his chest. “I assumed there wouldn’t be enough.”

“Is ‘Ponine not with you?” Bahorel asked, having finally divested his mouth from the barrier of prawn crackers. Enjolras shut the door, the loud snap it made perhaps a little more forceful than he had intended.

“She said something about that demon little brother of hers.” Grantaire said good humouredly, flopping down onto the sofa that hadn’t been straightened after being sent askew in Bahorel and Feuilly’s wrestling match, “She’ll be along later.” 

“Musichetta text back, Joly!” Bossuet shrieked before anyone else could say anything, evidently carrying on from an earlier episode. He promptly saw the look most of them were sending him and hastily gave a deep cough before continuing in a more levelled tone, “She says-if our hosts don’t mind- she’d very much like to join us and she knows the way to Feuilly’s place.”

“Thank you for working in that restaurant.” Joly told Feuilly, solemnity in his eyes.

“That was of course my primary reason for getting that job.” Feuilly said instantly as he handed a beer to Combeferre. Bahorel chuckled. 

Enjolras wasn’t too sure why a prickling feeling of impatience kept steeling over him as Courfeyrac and Jehan focused on the iPod Courfeyrac had brought, heads knocking together as they constructed a playlist, and Feuilly went around bestowing beer to people. Perhaps it was the sound of Grantaire’s fingernails against the glass of his whiskey bottle, or the way he would loudly and obnoxiously laugh at Bahorel’s jokes, as if trying to grate on Enjolras’s nerves. Or maybe it was an impatience at himself, overtly conscious of those sounds despite having placed himself against the kitchen counter so many metres away. So he forced himself to concentrate on a conversation with Feuilly, feeling perhaps he was being a little unreasonable, but unable to stopper than unexplainable feeling of annoyance. 

“Cosette asked what I’m doing.” Marius announced a few minutes later, the first words Enjolras had heard from him since he’d got here, busy staring at his phone as if it were, in fact, the girl they’d hearing a lot about lately. Too much, in Enjolras’s opinion.

“Ask her to come here.” Feuilly said around the lip of his beer bottle, and he seemed to still be amused at something Enjolras had said. To his recollection, Enjolras had said nothing particularly funny, although maybe he had a tendency to get a little overenthusiastic about Feuilly’s capacity to handle university and two jobs at once. 

“But,” Marius was saying, sounding hesitant, “But we’re not official or anything…” And with that he broke off, his face flushing. Enjolras frowned, lost and the impatient feeling weighing down any attempt he might have made to try to grip Marius’s point.

Bahorel cottoned on first.

“Jesus Marius,” He snorted, “Are you seriously asking if we’re going to _steal_ your girl?”

Marius had the decency to look embarrassed. 

The alcohol seemed to disappear a lot more rapidly in the time before Marius’s phone buzzed again and he scrambled out the front door, rambling off words to Cosette at the other end about how he’d meet her and _not_ to move.

“He’s an odd kid, isn’t he?” Bahorel contemplated, as the door bounced off its hinges upon Marius’s exit. 

“Higher or lower?” Grantaire asked him with a yawn, thumbing a card pack he’d grabbed from the coffee table, the now mostly empty whiskey bottle still in his grip. And Enjolras was looking at him again. 

“Lower.” Bahorel said without even looking at the card Grantaire had just set down.

“It’s an ace, dipshit. Down your drink.” 

Cosette, who Enjolras had seen in a brief glimpse one Saturday however long ago, turned out to be the opposite of who he would expect to be interested in Marius. 

He’d imagined, if briefly considering it had even counted as imagining, a female equivalent. But a female equivalent would not have happily walked into the room and seized those nearest by the hand, cheerfully introducing herself as she swung a long braid over her shoulder. When he reflected on it later, Enjolras decided that he had liked her. Particularly as she overheard the stem of conversation Combeferre had directed at Enjolras about the flyers he’d been handing out to the people in his lectures, and she’d leant across from helping Jehan select a song on the iPod-that Courfeyrac had been officially banned from after Rihanna had been played more than three times- to offer to distribute some where she studied.

“Can we protest against them trying to get rid of the padlocks on all the bridges?” Jehan had asked, looking up from the iPod. “Oh, but that’s quite a big thing. Maybe that can wait for another time.”

And whilst Enjolras had had to physically swallow the protestation that had risen up at Jehan’s consideration of the padlocks of Paris being an important matter, he’d felt a rush of gratitude to Cosette.

When Musichetta arrived, with a similar bravado about her to Cosette, only bearing rather more alcohol and less inclination to help hand out leaflets, Enjolras found his attention drifting somewhat. His mind had been side-tracked by the talk of flyers and protests, a topic that had been skirting about his head frequently of late, something that had stopped him focusing on his rather more pointless lectures, and something he’d thought about instead of sleeping some nights. The fervour with which those thoughts were held in his mind seemed to set his brain alight, a spark that was almost addictive. One that consumed most of his thoughts and allowed smaller, lesser things to pass by him unnoticed. 

As some pop song he was unfamiliar with started blasting out the speakers, he had found himself moving off towards the stack of art Bahorel, Feuilly and Grantaire had been moving that morning when he’d come across them. There, the beer he’d been given still in his hand, he started to casually prise the canvases apart mind half on what he was seeing, resting them against his leg as he looked through them, flicking past the different painted scenes all layered against the wall. He couldn’t tell an immediate difference between Feuilly and Grantaire’s work, it all seemed to vary to his eyes. But on closer inspection he saw the odd scribble on the corners of some pieces, or the scrawl of an ‘r’ on the back of some of the boards. He couldn’t have said why he lingered longer on these ones. Perhaps he’d been looking for a clue for some of the things that coloured Grantaire’s mind. For some indecipherable reason; a curiosity for Grantaire that he’d felt himself reflecting on more and more of late.

Wednesday had passed a lot through his mind recently, always there beneath his other preoccupations and focuses, the image of Grantaire sleep dishevelled and half undressed and smiling a smile Enjolras didn’t think he’d meant one bit. And then there’d been _War and Peace_ , which had derailed him and caused him to half think, as he’d stood there in the mess of Grantaire’s apartment, of all the things Grantaire could have, and could achieve if he were not so constantly soaked down with alcohol. That thought had made him uncomfortable, frustrated, feelings that he’d ended up directing upon himself as he’d caused Grantaire’s shoulders to slump and his laughs to grow even more bitter and for the first time he could remember Grantaire had asked him to go away. At the time, perhaps he had meant his affirming silence of those words. But the more he had thought about it, and he had thought about it a lot, the more he realised the complete and utter idiocy in those harshly spoken words. Any anger he had held so briefly with Grantaire faded back, always there but dulled once more, and he had been surprised at the anger he felt at himself. 

The sudden decision he made snapped into place before he could properly think it through, an impulsive resolution that wasn’t thought out or contemplated like anything else he did, and he was setting the canvases back across the wall and heading to where Grantaire was still playing card games with Bahorel.

The whisky was gone, just an empty bottle resting against Grantaire’s thin t-shirt as he lolled against the sofa, just reaching forwards for a card after an exchange with Cosette that had left her laughing. 

“Grantaire, can you come outside for a moment?” He heard himself saying tersely, deaf to what he was interrupting, his brain focused on what he was determined to see through regardless.

“What, are we fist fighting now?” Grantaire snorted, not meeting his eye, “Can I send Bahorel in my stead? I’m a little drunk you see.”

“Now, please.”

Grantaire let those words fall upon silence for a moment, still looking at the card in his hand, before he let out a sigh, sitting up as he finally met Enjolras’s gaze.

“Ok.” He said, drawing out the word, eyes widening slightly with a weak attempt at brazenness, as he clambered slightly unsteadily to his feet. Enjolras caught Combeferre’s eye before he headed out into that cold corridor, something akin to reassurance mapped out in the small smile he offered him. Or perhaps it was more of a plea not to make anything worse.

Grantaire’s arms were over his chest the minute Enjolras shut the door behind him, a defensive stance thinning his lips. But maybe his eyes looked a little softer compared to the  
rest of the guarded image he portrayed.

“What?” He asked.  
“I-” And dammit, there was that hesitation again, that faltering that always stumbled upon his mind when he could normally be so precise and articulate. There was something about Grantaire that brought forwards an unsure, blustering side to him, one that would surface when they argued. A rivulet of questioning born from every word Grantaire said against his own. But here, now it had surfaced when all he wanted to do was put a stop to whatever venomous thing had seeped between them these past few days.

“I didn’t mean what I said.” He finally was saying, and Grantaire was looking at him, his face almost blank, his fingers gripping his arms hard, “I didn’t mean it at all.”

Grantaire opened his mouth, a small incline of breath being drawn before he was silent for a moment,

“Why are you saying that?” He finally asked, studying Enjolras’s shoulder.

“Because I _mean_ it, Grantaire. I’m not just saying it for your benefit.” 

“Actually, you’ve already made it pretty clear you _did_ mean it when you said I was a waste of space.” Grantaire told him, and he _still_ wouldn’t look at him, not even with anger strengthening his voice. 

“I-” And Enjolras clenched his jaw, feeling this slipping away, “I was wrong.”

Grantaire gave a hollow laugh.

“And he’s human after all.” He announced with a smile that was gone as soon as it had appeared, trudging over to the set of stairs a metre or so away and sinking down onto the top step. “Were you debating that this past week? Was there a pros and cons list for my existence?” 

“Shut up.” Enjolras heard himself snapping, and there again was the anger that Grantaire alone seemed to spark within him, the type that made him stupid and rash. 

“No, really I’m curious.” Grantaire’s tone was derisive now, his shoulder pressing against the cold plastered wall, “Which particular attribute of mine made you realise I was worth something? Please tell me, it would be good to know.” 

The hint of desperation that seemed to creep unwillingly into Grantaire’s tone pulled Enjolras back from where he’d been half thinking of leaving Grantaire out in that hallway then and there. It checked the sudden stab of anger, dissipating it somewhat and leaving him feeling oddly at a loss for what to say. The feeling sat uncomfortably with him.

After a moment’s hesitation, he moved forwards, dropping down onto that stair too, hands pressed together, feeling the skin between his eyebrows pucker as he frowned. 

“Is that what you think?” He finally asked. “That you’re worthless?”

Grantaire laughed again, still no trace of humour to it and finally turned to meet Enjolras’s eyes.

“Well, _fuck_ , Enjolras, isn’t that what you told me?”

That floored him. The utter realization that Grantaire really did absorb his words, and he, clueless in so many ways, had never completely realised. Perhaps, deep somewhere he’d known that all along, but the understanding fully dawned on him now, in that draughty hallway with the muted sounds of their friends and music through the closed apartment door.

The astonishment in his face must have shown, because Grantaire’s shoulders suddenly dropped slightly, the angry grit of his jaw lessening as he suddenly looked a little panicked.

“Looks like I’ve had too much whiskey.” He said quickly, a grin slipping on his face, his slightly crooked teeth bared in what looked more like a grimace to Enjolras. He stirred slightly, the fabric of his jeans rustling as he pulled his legs in, as if he wanted to get up and leave, but couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.

“I have to wonder though,” He said haltingly, looking down at Enjolras’s hands, still clasped tightly together, not betraying the roiling of thoughts that were plaguing his mind. “Why you wanted to talk about this.”

“What do you mean?” 

“You decided that I wasn’t worthless, ok I get that bit,” He waved a flippant hand as if it amused him, and Enjolras didn’t miss the lack of forgiveness in those words, “But why did you feel the need to tell me suddenly? To drag me out into this less than stunning stairwell?” 

“Are you mocking me?” Enjolras asked, frowning, a little thrown off by his tone and Grantaire met his eye again, and he saw an edge of the sadness he could glimpse sometimes, normally so regularly glazed over with quips and smirks and alcohol. 

“Humour me, Apollo.” He said.

Enjolras took in that expression, the sad smile that pulled at his thin lips and muted his blue eyes, and realised he wasn’t too sure of the answer himself. 

“I don’t like being at loggerheads with you.” He eventually said. “I know we constantly seem to be disagreeing over something, but this…” He gestured in the space between them, a hand waving at the distance between their bodies, “I don’t want this.”

Grantaire let out a sigh, hiding his face as he angled his head away; dark hair tumbling over his features. Enjolras watched him closely, trying to read what he was thinking by the slackness of his stance as he stretched forwards, elbows resting on his knees, to find some clue in his interlaced, bruised hands. But he couldn’t even understand the looks Grantaire would fix him with, couldn’t understand what was going through his mind no matter how hard he tried.

Sometimes, Grantaire made him question whether he understood anything at all.

“I don’t like this either.” Grantaire finally said, straightening slightly, and he looked tired, as if whatever was weighing on his mind was exhausting him. He pressed a hand against his eyes, sighing again with something close to exasperated humour, as if he were reproaching himself for something. “Fuck.” He whispered, as if he didn’t want Enjolras to here, rambling to himself, “You are hard to stay angry at. No, not angry. You’re hard to ignore.”

The weak smile he shot him didn’t make Enjolras feel any happier. This conversation hadn’t. He felt incapable and powerless, as if those rashly spoken words had inflicted a permanent damage. He felt frustrated, and furious he couldn’t tell what Grantaire was thinking, exasperated he couldn’t find the words to ask and exasperated Grantaire would never let him know. He was exhausted with trying to guess, and endlessly lost as to why he kept trying; why Grantaire seemed to rapidly be filling up the corners of his mind not coloured by those thoughts that flared his brain with that fervent determination. 

He wanted to say all of that, right there, to tell Grantaire all of those things. 

But the words stuck in his throat. And instead he just asked in a low voice,

“What happened to your hands?”

“Hmm?” A hum lit in the back of Grantaire’s throat, his lips pursing slightly, “Oh. My kickboxing technique has grown lousy-”

Enjolras was moving before he was really conscious of it, his hand drifting towards Grantaire’s, and Grantaire broke off instantly, his voice hitching. He didn’t touch him, his fingers resting lightly just above Grantaire’s wrist; fingertips ghosting against his skin. They both looked at where their bodies were almost meeting, both silent on those stairs that smelt like cigarettes and the cologne Courfeyrac wore.

The music, that so far had been a subdued background sound, suddenly burst loud into the silence; Rihanna’s voice blasting through the door, and they both jumped. Enjolras’s hand whipped back to his side. Grantaire stayed where he was, focused on his own, long fingers with something near bewilderment on his face.

“God, I hate that song.” He muttered after a moment, his voice a little unsteady. He _had_ drunk a whole bottle of whiskey, Enjolras reflected. “I suppose it would help if I knew what she was saying, but still.” 

He looked up in time to catch Enjolras studying his face, and he gave a small, uncertain smile.

“Something about diamonds, if I recall.” Enjolras said, an uneasy feeling of uncertainty settling about him, not quite able to pull his gaze away from Grantaire’s.

Grantaire uttered a short, husky laugh.

“Well, I have a card game to beat Bahorel at.” He said, running his hands over his jeans, still not getting to his feet, still shooting sideways looks at Enjolras, his expression unreadable.

Enjolras felt himself nodding, almost reluctant as he made to get to his feet, a resolute hand seizing Grantaire’s arm and hauling him up with him. He was unsteady on his feet, after all. Grantaire stood facing him, just a little shorter than him, looking exhausted and drunk and perhaps a little unnerved. It was him who moved off first, uncertain steps towards the door, and the look that had been mapped out on his face stayed printed on Enjolras’s mind for the rest of the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HNNGG thank you all for your lovely comments you are all making my head extremely huge right now and I love you all! Exams are still ongoing hence my snail pace updates so sorry about that! C:  
> I tumble [here](http://icarus-drunk.tumblr.com//) if you want to come say howdy. Or bonjour.


	8. With so many trees in the city, you could see the spring coming each day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jehan no longer feels melancholy in the moonlight, Bahorel misuses coffee foam, and couscous should really not cause that much confusion.

Contemplating things, which was something his mind was all too drawn to doing, Jehan didn’t have to look far to know that he was happy.

The kind of happy that had him stopping whatever he was doing to scrawl down verses on the nearest thing resembling paper; and the kind of happy that would distract him and have him stare off into space with a look that Bahorel had recently informed him was really just a little bit nauseating but good for you kid. It wasn’t as if he had been depressed before that kiss on the boulevard lit by streetlamps, just a week ago. But those feelings in his heart had before then weighed heavy, and perhaps he’d relished them as he often did with whatever was in his chest, too attune to every turn of sentiment. He might have lain in bed at night and watched the rain outside and savoured the self-inflicted aching hopelessness that spun about inside him, or looked with sore envy on passing couples. But it was happiness that lightened his steps now, a new contentment that hummed in his chest, that seemed as though a piece of the sun had been caught in his heart, one he’d tried his best to put into words but couldn’t quite snare and capture and immortalize with ink and paper.

He’d drunk far too much on Tuesday night, mainly because he’d overestimated his tolerance for unnaturally bright green liquids, which had been stupid, realised especially when Courfeyrac had walked him home and he’d somehow collapsed against his apartment door whilst trying to extricate his keys from his pocket. 

“I wouldn’t go as far to say that I can’t get up.” He’d informed the boy with tousled brown hair and warm, smiling eyes, who dressed as if he’d fallen out a designer clothes catalogue, whose features Jehan could never quite describe no matter how many words he frantically learnt. His feet had scrabbled a little as he’d made an attempt to slide himself up against the door, “Only, I think the results might be a little interesting.”

At which point Courfeyrac had swooped down and gathered him in his arms and Jehan had thought for a brief second that maybe fairy-tales happened in crawling metropolises too.

Even if he’d woken up with ink smeared all over his face and his hair tangled in his eyes and had hoped fervently he hadn’t looked like that all night. 

Tonight he’d left his window open; tempting summer to warm the nights, and brighten the daytime bustle of the city as blossom scattered across the boulevards. The moonlight was skimming the edges of the curtains drifting slightly in an almost breeze, and that pale light tumbled forwards over the thin carpet, onto the soft duvet, and gently kissed the smooth skin of Courfeyrac’s bare shoulder. 

There had been a glorious, intoxicating laziness to the way they had settled into one another’s company, as if they’d been together all their lives. But somehow at the same time the unfamiliar, unversed nature of it would thrill him and stun him and his heart would stumble. He felt it when Courferyrac’s fingers would stroke his hair, or when his skin brushed bare against his when they’d first slept in the same bed. He felt it when he met those brown, warm eyes, a sickening wonderful plunge in his heart and he felt as though he might fly. He couldn’t quite grow used to the way Courfeyrac was _there,_ how Jehan could move across and kiss those lips he’d thought about so much, could take his hand as they walked through the streets, could buy him his favourite coffee, just the two of them. He didn’t think he’d grow used to any of that, not ever, but he thought he rather liked that idea. So he’d revelled that feeling that struck him like lightening every time, trying to put it into words in his mind, thinking it a sign that his fingers slotted perfectly behind Courfeyrac’s neck when his lips brushed his; and that his own freckles aligned with the moles on Courfeyrac’s arms.

Jehan’s phone had read one o’clock in the morning when they’d arrived at his apartment after leaving Bahorel, Combeferre and Feuilly’s. Joly and Bossuet had left slightly earlier to get a drink with Musichetta and the invitation for Courfeyrac to stay the night had tumbled easily out Jehan’s lips as they’d arrived at his tenement block. 

His heart had squirmed warmly when he’d accepted in a second. 

It had been a few days since they’d rushed into the first time they’d slept together, seized by a sudden uncontrollable longing, breath racing, pushed up against one another as they’d stumbled into Courfeyrac’s apartment one evening, wet from the rain outside, clothing half hanging off them and hair tangled as their hands had hungrily discovered untouched skin. They hadn’t even made it to the bed. 

There was a vulnerability to sleeping; and sleeping with someone else there to hear your breaths and lazy movements made it all the more pointed. Jehan had never liked taking people back to his room; his own space nestled in a sprawling city filled with two million people. It was a place of safety and one entirely his own where the world couldn’t see him. 

But Courfeyrac seemed to be an exception to that rule. There was a warmth and gentleness to him, one Jehan had known for the years they had known one another, Courferyrac etched in Jehan’s heart alongside with the rest of his friends. He might play an additional role now, but that warmth was still there, causing Jehan to wake in his arms with a smile on his face and that easiness and contentment always there. 

Courfeyrac was lying against him now, their noses barely a centimetre apart. His fingers were trailing along Jehan’s skin, a lazy, hypnotic movement as his fingertips moved up and down along his torso, light along his side. They seemed to carry no care for the faint grooves of stretch marks that scattered silver along his hips, seemed to relish every inch of him.

“I was going to say something before I started doing this.” Courfeyrac murmured, his voice muffled by the pillow against his face, his breath warm against Jehan’s face. “I’ve completely forgotten what it was though.”

“Mm.” Jehan agreed, eyes half closed and thinking that whatever lay in utopia could not possibly match this. 

The sound of the front door opening at that moment was a harsh noise in their carefully spun, and the voices that flowed laughing into the apartment jarred in Jehan’s ears. Joly’s chuckle as the door shut, the lock clicking, and in response to an indiscernible comment by Bossuet, a low female voice.

“Oh my god!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, bolting upright, a ludicrous grin suddenly breaking across his face, “That was not the laugh of someone who intends to sleep with only one person tonight!”

“Are you serious?” Jehan questioned no one in particular, perhaps a trifle mournfully. His side felt a little cold. Courfeyrac sent him a wide-eyed stare. 

“This is news, Prouvaire. _News_ I tell you.” 

“They’re just watching TV.” Jehan pointed out, as the distant crackle of static and muffled voices began to issue through his closed bedroom door. 

“It’s a front.” Courfeyrac insisted and Jehan let out a snigger at the ridiculous look on his face, as he sat there, back straight and normally artfully tousled hair now fully dishevelled, glaring contemplatively at the shut door. Jehan carefully filed away the image to the recesses of his mind. 

At Jehan’s laugh, Courfeyrac seemed to promptly abandon his attempt to discern what was taking place between three people in the living room, shifting to look at Jehan; a soft smile just visible in the light darkened by navy blue night. He leant forwards on his arms, the skin in the dip where his neck ran to his shoulder creasing as he tilted his head, eyes glittering as held his gaze.

“I think I’m quite mad for you.” He said after a time, lips curling up with the words, as if he loved them. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realise.”  
Those were perfect words, Jehan thought, as he leant upwards on his elbows, shifting forwards with the bed sheets to kiss Courfeyrac, because he could now. Perfect words he’d want to write down later and words that made his heart hum a little and his mind shoot up out that open window to dance with the faintly glimmering stars far above the city skyline. Crying with the rain and sad poetry seemed oddly ludicrous now.

“And I am mad for you.” He whispered back, and knew that to be true in every sense. But who wasn’t a little mad, he thought as Courfeyrac trailed his fingers across the side of Jehan’s face and closed the centimetre between their lips again. Who didn’t secretly relish in terror and sorrow and pure joy, and sometimes in such quick succession it could only be a type of madness. That was the way the world seemed to spin.

And right now, Jehan contemplated, as the TV continued to crackle in the background and the sheets below him crunched as he wound his arms about the boy before him, he was rather more than ok with that.

* * *

In the snatched hour between two lectures on a Tuesday coloured by rain showers, Combeferre was perfectly happy to sit with Enjolras and Courfeyrac in a random café they’d spotted, with hot drinks before them and wet shoes leaving slicks on the tiled floor. Enjolras had some of the leaflets they’d been distributing scattered on the table, fliers protesting the funding cuts of arts programmes across too many schools and universities. His hair was a little tousled from his fingers as he’d riddled out the thoughts in his mind in that clear, concise way of his, brows lowered as ever and the cup of coffee beside him growing cold.

“Well, a walkout would help.” Courfeyrac said to an earlier comment, lolling back in his chair with a marshmallow from his hot chocolate crammed in one side of his mouth. “Even if it’s just more people becoming aware of the opposition to it.”

“A few groups are on similar lines.” Combeferre reflected, glancing down at one of the twitter pages on his phone. 

“It will help.” Enjolras commented flatly, focusing on one of the leaflets he’d picked up from the art building left by one of the student groups. 

“It’s just whether it will help enough.” Combeferre put in lightly.

Courfeyrac’s phone started ringing just then, and it seemed Rihanna had been replaced by a tune Combeferre was unfamiliar with, but really sounded like it should be the background to a strip tease.

“Really?” Enjolras asked of nobody in particular, and Courfeyrac sent him a wink before answering the call. 

“Good afternoon, Jolllly.” He said, his tone mock serious as he stretched the name out. “We’re being very busy and important so this better be goo….ha really? Well, if you can find us, you can join us.” After a moment in which Joly’s voice could be heard indiscernibly Courfeyrac pulled a dramatic face, “Well, of _course_ I’m going to tell Jehan where we are. I like him…yeah that is how it is, I’d say see you later but the odds are against you.”

“What was that about?” Combeferre asked him mildly, stirring his macchiato as Courfeyrac hung up, then quickly typed out a rapid message on his phone before dropping it back on the table,

“Well we don’t want our plotting time unnecessarily invaded, do we?” He grinned, and Enjolras quirked an eyebrow that didn’t quite conceal the flash of amusement on his face. “So, anyway, I was thinking of canvassing to the humanities department, and perhaps getting an email list together across the whole of the uni.”

“We need to branch out beyond that too.” Enjolras said, looking up from the leaflet at last, a somewhat distracted look to his gaze, “Beyond the university.” 

“To anyone who will listen.” Combeferre put in with dry humour. 

A fist slammed on the window that hugged the end of their table a moment later and Combeferre jumped, slopping some of macchiato onto his jacket. The fist apparently belonged to Bahorel, who pulled open the glass door a moment later.

Any of Courfeyrac’s intended ‘plotting’ was a little side-lined by Jehan, Joly and Grantaire, who came trailing in after Bahorel, into the café they’d selected for its cheap coffee, nestled in a road clustered with pigeons just off the Boulevard Saint-Germain. 

It wasn’t that their interests and sentiments differed so much from the three friends seated at that table. But perhaps a sense of immediacy settled about Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Enjolras that the others were lacking in some way. They would organize and plan whilst the others might just discuss. In the end, they’d follow, but the leaflets and dates they’d been looking at for the past half hour or so had not been of their initiation, and never seemed to be. Perhaps that was the reason Courfeyrac now brought out a course book to look at instead of the brochure on what cutting art funds would mean, even if Enjolras stayed staring resolutely at the stack of paper before him, looking for all the world as if he hadn’t even noticed the others’ entrance.

“What is this?” Courfeyrac announced dramatically, flinging the hand not holding his book up in the air, and fixing Jehan with a scandalised expression, “You _betrayed_ me.”

“Nonsense.” Jehan told him, settling into the chair beside Courfeyrac with a greeting wave to Combeferre and Enjolras. “Joly happened to read your text over my shoulder.”

“Fate placed us rather nearby here as well.” Bahorel added, shrugging off a dark jacket, before heading off towards the counter with an absently voiced, “Who wanted coffee?”

“You look like you’ve been showered in overlarge confetti.” Joly observed with a grin, gesturing to the stack of leaflets as he grabbed a seat and began trying to extricate himself from a thick woollen coat.

“We’re planning our methods for saving those wretched students who love the arts.” Courfeyrac proclaimed, a hand tossed over his heart. As Courfeyrac was studying art history, Combeferre assumed the extreme mournfulness to his tone was perhaps a little genuine. 

“Oh is that what we’re doing?” Grantaire asked, unwinding a thin scarf from about his neck and looking amused, “Enthralling.”

Enjolras somehow registered this remark and the lack of seriousness with which it was spoken, and tore his gaze from the table to shoot Grantaire a quick look that seemed to suggest he didn’t much appreciate his input. 

“So did you enjoy your drink with Musichetta last night, Joly?” Courfeyrac said quickly, and Jehan stopped halfway in the act of getting up to help Bahorel with the drinks, and shot Courfeyrac a ‘please don’t be doing what I think you’re doing’ look. Combeferre, who never usually felt like he was missing something, now felt suitably in the dark, and assumed  
something had taken place after they had all left his apartment last night.

The small kitchen and sitting room combination had still smelt of takeaway that morning when Combeferre had stumbled out of bed, bleary-eyed, to put on a piece of toast, and whilst he’d shoved the sofa back in its original position, he’d left the scattered playing cards that had somehow worked their way all over the room. Combeferre had attributed that to Eponine, who had lobbed her set of cards across the room when she’d realised Grantaire was going to win. She had shown up around eleven thirty, bright-eyed and quick to laugh, teasing Combeferre for apparently looking too serious. He’d watched her introduce herself smilingly to Cosette, no hint of faltering about her as they’d laughed together, except perhaps she’d avoided Marius’s gaze a little. He hadn’t really had the time to talk to her alone, wondering if everything really was ok between them once more after that brief phone call early that morning when he’d just been lying in bed and listening to the stream of traffic start to flow heavier beneath his window. 

He fished his phone out his pocket as Joly enthusiastically told Courfeyrac that the drink he’d grabbed with Musichetta and Bossuet had been very nice indeed. Courfeyrac didn’t look particularly satisfied, Combeferre noted with a grin, looking up from typing out a message to Eponine to ask if she was free to join them, before beginning to stack up a few of the leaflets that had somewhat dominated the table as Bahorel made his way over with a tray of brimming coffee cups.

“We all have the same boring cappuccinos because I can’t remember what you all like.” He told Jehan, Joly and Grantaire, setting the tray down on the cleared table. “A man can only handle so many different types of coffee.”

“Bahorel, you _know_ I like a tall half-skinny half-three per cent extra warm split quad shot latte with whipped cream.” Grantaire whined in a mock injured voice as he drew that battered hipflask from his pocket, “What are you playing at?”

His comment went ignored and Combeferre, Joly and Enjolras watched with mild horror as he slipped what looked like whiskey into his cappuccino. Enjolras’s expression was perhaps more verging on horrified disgust. 

Eponine’s reply distracted Combeferre from the conversation Joly struck up a moment later, apparently keen to ignore Grantaire’s preferred method of caffeine intake. It was a simple text of confirmation that she’d join them in a moment, but perhaps he was a little more drawn to the succession of kisses she’d strung to the end of it. He caught himself smiling. 

“-what kind of flowers do girls like?” Joly was saying when Combeferre tucked his phone back in the pocket of his jeans, reaching for his macchiato. 

“Special girl flowers.” Bahorel told him.

“Fleur-de-lys?” Grantaire put in with a smug smile in Enjolras’s direction. Enjolras rolled his eyes, sighing, though perhaps he didn’t look quite as irritated as he usually did when Grantaire directed something mockingly towards him, monarchical related or not. 

Joly sank back in his chair, muttering about useless friends. 

Eponine pushed open the door to the café just as Grantaire got up to go and buy himself the slice of cake he’d been debating the appeals of for the last five minutes. Her hair was damp from the shower that had sparked outside; rain falling with a new heat that smelt of summertime. 

“Have you lot finally split into two rival gangs?” She asked by way of greeting, “Where’s everyone else?”

“Lectures, studying.” Courfeyrac answered before Combeferre could, “It’s almost like we’re university students.” 

His helpful response was met by the two fingers Eponine held up to him. 

“How was your brother last night?” Combeferre asked her as Grantaire returned with his slice of cake, effortlessly dodging Bahorel as he made a lunge for it. 

“He was fine.” Eponine replied, settling back in her chair as she checked her phone, tucking stray strands of damp hair behind her ears. “He might be staying round mine for a while.” 

“Can I take him to go see that kids’ film no one will come and see with me?” Courfeyrac asked, his course book being completely ignored as he fiddled with the page corners, “Kids love me.”

“He only likes Bahorel.” Eponine said, not looking up from her phone. “And that’s only because he saw him kicking in that street sign.”

“To my drunken senses, it had offended me.” Bahorel said by way of defence, “Ok,” He added a moment later, setting his cappuccino down and gesturing to the froth on his upper lip, “Which historical dictator do I look most like?”

“Oh my god.” Combeferre muttered, abruptly wondering why he was friends with these people. 

“What are you reading, Courf?” Grantaire asked, ignoring Bahorel and proceeding to dip a segment of his cake into his spiked coffee. Joly looked at him with woeful intrigue. 

“Commentaries on the social impact from the erection of amphitheatres.” Courfeyrac answered, turning meaningful eyes on Joly. Jehan gave an odd, jolting movement, as if he had just kicked Courfeyrac under the table.

“Well that was creepy.” Joly said after a full second of silence. 

“Sometimes I think _I’m_ mad.” Eponine addressed Combeferre in a conspiratorial whisper, leaning towards him as she played with a tear in the leg of her tights, “But this lot make me feel so much better about myself.”

Combeferre met her gaze, close enough to make out the way her eyeliner had smudged from tired fingers, and his laugh died when he saw that the look in her weary eyes was perhaps not entirely joking. 

He worried about his friends, every one of them, from loud and laughing and upbeat Courfeyrac to exhausted and hardworking Feuilly. But with Eponine now, who seemed to have gaged the expression he wore and was shifting away, not meeting his eye, his worry was met with a muted, sickening fury. That someone so young and with so much strength should have the world fight her so much. He saw the distrust that layered her smiles and her expressions, the tense set of her shoulders as if she was forcing herself to stay standing. The warning in her eyes when his tones grew too sympathetic. And he felt useless, a feeling Combeferre had placed as one of the worst in the world. 

And he didn’t say anything as he sat at that table, leaflets filled with the purpose of helping others in his hands, wishing he could resolve everything that made Eponines’s smiles strained and her eyes guarded, didn’t say anything as they all got reluctantly to their feet, the hour pushing them towards their different obligations. He didn’t say anything until they were all out on that narrow street flooded with pigeons and tourists and racks filled with postcards, bags and aprons. Then the words were almost a whisper as they went to head in opposite directions, eyes meeting for a brief moment as he almost touched her arm.

“I’m here.” Was all he said, and it felt like nowhere near enough, not even close. But as she looked at him, and the briefest gleam of a smile spread across her face, and the corners of her lips quirked, Combeferre felt the slight appeasement of the sensation of uselessness. And whilst happiness was not the right term to define that lightening of his chest as he headed towards his last lecture of the day, Eponine’s smile stayed in the back of his mind as statistics and figures swirled before him, and the rain showers fell on Paris.

* * *

The rain seemed to be a screen, a stage curtain that tumbled down over the haphazard rooftops and shuttered windows as summer slowly crept out from the wings and into the city. Grantaire could tell this from the warmth that clung to the rain, the new heat in the air and the bursts of sunshine in between showers. The colours of this type of weather were black and blue and blinding yellow, clashes of brightness and thundery darkness that oil paint would never quite do justice. There was a mildly intoxicating scent to it, one that clung to his nostrils now as he walked through the rambling side streets that Wednesday; the watery sun not quite at its peak as it lit almost idly plummeting raindrops that gleamed white as they fell to the pavement. The ever present racks of bric-a-brac and postcards dripped, the high buildings were washed dark with water. He supposed he had somewhere to be, but he’d pushed it from his mind, half with an idea to go and scrounge some food from a chef he knew, or simply go and sketch with the artists at Montmartre where the pigeons might finally be outnumbering the tourists.

The sporadic rays of sunshine were hurting the backs of his eyes somewhat as he wove between the crowds, smoking and ignoring the drops of water falling on his bare arms. He was tired, like he was always tired, living with a sleep pattern he barely remembered as ever having been normal. 

He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d picked the hours after the house party (or low-key social gathering) to sort out the clutter in his room. His clock had read three when he’d finally glanced at it, in between lobbing old beer cans and empty crisp packets in the general direction of a bin liner. But he hadn’t particularly cared, and his mind wouldn’t allow rest. Or his skin, which had seemed aflame, ever since sitting in that cramped and peeling hallway; Enjolras’s fingers so close to his. He’d felt weak, he _still_ felt weak, at how easily he’d forgiven Enjolras for the words that he’d stabbed him with. He felt weak and rattled and feverish. And so tired. And he couldn’t quite understand the wild and aching extent to how much he’d wanted Enjolras’s fingers on his, on any part of him, on every part of him. He couldn’t grasp how he could be so furious with someone, furious they still didn’t _get_ it, and feel so utterly shaken as the distance on those stairs had closed. But Grantaire had grown accustomed to hiding, whether it was behind bottles or smirks or hastily voiced witticisms. But that almost touch had fired his mind, barriers he’d so carefully built seeming to crumble, and it hadn’t felt like his fault. But Enjolras didn’t understand, couldn’t understand the way Grantaire tried not to look at him, perhaps not as hard as he should have tried. And Grantaire couldn’t explain why their normal distance had seemed to lessen, or if it even had. Perhaps it was a whirlpool of imaginings, and he was finally mad.

A hand laid itself firmly on his shoulder and he span round, and he was _definitely_ mad, because Paris had summoned Enjolras now out of the spring rain and passing crowds, throwing all its bright paint defying colours to create him and that couldn’t be happening. 

“Do you not own a jacket?” He was asking, not out of query but disbelief, and maybe he was real, or Grantaire’s mind was as cruel as some of the words Enjolras directed at him.

A Greek tragedian once said of love ‘down with the sweet disease that kills a man with kindness.’ But there was little kind about the way Enjolras looked at Grantaire, at any time, or now, with his hand sill resting firmly on Grantaire’s shoulder, skin warm and sending dizzying waves to Grantaire’s tired mind.

“Yes.” Grantaire finally said, stepping back, Enjolras’s hand falling, his mind doing this for himself, just this once. “But I’m nothing if not a stickler for tempting fate.”

Enjolras looked down at him, and abruptly seemed to be wondering why he’d stopped, his lips pursing as they always did when he was faced with Grantaire. But there was an air of distractedness to him, his arched eyebrows drawn and dark smudges beneath his eyes as if someone had lightly brushed charcoal along his pale skin. 

“You look tired.” Grantaire told him, hearing the softness of his tone whether he had intended it to be there or not.

“I’m fine.” Enjolras said tersely. 

“Nah.” Grantaire grinned, stamping his cigarette out on the pavement between them as people rushed around them, lost in the flow of the city, “You’re _worrying_. No, that’s not the right word. Either way, I’m willing to bet you have leaflets and flyers scattered all around that lovely apartment of yours and they’re keeping you up at night.”

Enjolras drew a quick breath, as if he had been ready with some dismissive, snappy retort to brush Grantaire off with. But at the last moment his lips quirked and he let out a humourless laugh, fingers rising to rub his temple.

“And you’re being mocking again.” He said, fixing Grantaire with a gaze Grantaire couldn’t pull away from. Trapped, trapped by that tragedian’s sweet disease. 

“It’s what I do.” Grantaire was lost he decided, even more lost than he usually was when he was confronted with Enjolras. The dynamic between them suddenly seemed to have shifted with that laugh. Or perhaps he was leading himself on again, something he’d resisted and spurned for so long that had suddenly been like a crumbling dam these past few  
weeks; twigs and sticks shattering as water cascaded forth. And he knew what had happened the last time he’d let hope build in his chest. And Grantaire was clever, in so, so many things. But in this he’d never learn. He’d keep circling his sun, he’d sit in a car beside him for hours, he’d ask him a thousand times to stay in a moonlit apartment when his head was spinning. Because of that sweet disease that he knew he was incurable from, a poison from which he couldn’t recover and he’d never, ever want to. There were times when he wondered if it would have been a blessing if they had never met, but that thought terrified him too much.

Enjolras was still looking at him, as if waiting for Grantaire to speak again, to mock him, as raindrops tangled in his golden curls and made the shoulders of his coat glisten.

“Have you eaten?” Enjolras said, as if he couldn’t think of anything to say and that was the first sentence he thought adequate.

“I…what?” Grantaire asked, completely bewildered.

Enjolras let out a haughty breath of annoyance at not having been understood immediately.

“We’re getting food.” He said, the words not quite matching up with the waspish tones he used to deploy them.

“What, like a kebab or something?” Grantaire sniggered, trying to picture Enjolras holding greasy processed meat that was definitely not even ninety per cent genuine.

“No.” Enjolras said tiredly. “We’re going to go and eat somewhere.”

Grantaire let out a loud, strangled laugh that caused a passing woman to shoot him a slightly alarmed look. Because he really had no other defence to what Enjolras had just suggested. How couldn’t he fucking _know_ he could have achieved the same effect if he’d just ploughed him down with a freight train? Or a sun chariot. 

But Enjolras was studying him now as if he had no idea how much Grantaire’s exhausted heart was stammering, as if he really had no clue that whilst he might stay awake contemplating walkouts and flyers, Grantaire stayed awake, always awake, because of _him_. 

He supposed he hesitated far too long to muster any casualness, and Enjolras looked impatiently at him.

“Aren’t you hungry?” He pressed.

“Well, yeah…”

“Well, come on then.” Enjolras rolled his eyes, brushing past him as he made to head down the side street, and that brief hiss of contact, coat against the soft fabric of his t-shirt geared Grantaire into walking stiffly after him, mind reeling and heart racing. 

“I haven’t got my wallet.” He eventually managed to choke out, keeping Enjolras ahead of him by a few centimetres, a hand unconsciously cast out to trail after the ends of his dark coat.

“So?” Enjolras’s voice was terse, almost as if he were irritated with him. As usual. 

“So I can’t pay.”

“You’ll pay me back.”

“Will I?”

Enjolras stopped to appraise him then, causing Grantaire to stumble to a halt. And Grantaire was completely caught out by the look he sent him. His eyebrows were arched slightly, that accustomed disdainful look almost replaced by another expression that turned down the corners of his mouth and darkened his eyes and _fuck_ , Grantaire might almost have called it pity as he stared back at him, wondering why the few centimetres of height between them suddenly seemed like metres.

“Yes, you will.” Enjolras said, and Grantaire did not like that, _hated_ that Enjolras seemed to know that Grantaire could not possibly deny him anything. But he couldn’t know, couldn’t know half of it. And any words he might have shot back, any glibness, was suddenly gone from his mind; debilitated by that look. 

He was still trapped five minutes later with that hatred that stretched past him and maybe settled somewhat on Enjolras; rendering him incapable of talking because perhaps just this once he couldn’t muster the wall of flippant defence that had kept him protected for so long, when the flash of red awning claimed his attention.

The restaurant looked much the same as any of the other hundreds scattered about the city; long windows boarded with a coat of red paint and tables stacked outside; rain glistening on the iron of the chairs. Posters hung in the windows, clips of French idols and glossy photographs misted from the heat inside. The smell of warm food drifted out onto the rain-washed street, and Grantaire’s stomach worked its way through the knotted tension to rumble appreciatively. 

“Here.” Was all Grantaire could say, his voice low, a hand coming forwards to hover a millimetre or so from Enjolras’s arm to stop him. 

“What?”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but eating somewhere involves actually being somewhere. And the couscous here is beyond words.”

“Oh.” Was all Enjolras said, brows knitting together and Grantaire had the odd impression that they could have walked across half of Paris and Enjolras wouldn’t have stopped anywhere. More important things, that didn’t involve Grantaire or food were evidently plaguing his mind once again, and Grantaire wondered what had even prompted him to ask  
for his company. The shock and reeling confusion unsettled him in a rushing wave all over again, and it was all he could do to follow Enjolras into the restaurant, wondering why he was doing this, how this was happening and how unhealthy it was. But he had never much been one for a healthy lifestyle. That much had been decided long ago.

And so it was a few minutes later that he found himself sat opposite the person who seemed to know every stabbing entrance to his heart, his own knees jogging and hands working together and noting the exits and wondering whether he wanted to use them or for them to disappear.

In the end, he sunk down behind his menu, a barrier between him and Enjolras as he tried to calm his spinning mind, staring determinedly and unseeingly at endless lists of couscous with lamb, chicken and merguez and wondering if Enjolras would leave if he ordered the strongest drink he could.

He only peered over his menu when the silence between them began to weigh too uncomfortable about him, and his normal necessity to alleviate it began to re-emerge, no matter how often he was met with irritation and snappy retorts.

Enjolras was checking his phone, a frown creasing the skin between his eyebrows as he read whatever was on that screen, a thumb flicking absent, or consternating against his middle finger, fidgeting in his seat.

“Is justice calling?” Grantaire asked, forcing a grin onto his face, and Enjolras flicked a glance up at him, grey eyes piercing him for just a second. 

“No.” He said tiredly, not taking the bait and setting his phone down on the tablecloth, slender fingers reaching for one of the menus slotted in a holder by Grantaire’s elbow. The unexpected sudden proximity shouldn’t have made Grantaire’s heart leap sickeningly. It shouldn’t have, but it did. He watched mutedly as Enjolras’s eyelashes skimmed his cheekbones as he glanced down at the menu, golden flecks illuminated in sporadic bursts of sunlight that found its way through the blue-tacked postcards and photos. 

“You’ve been here before then?” Enjolras eventually asked, looking back up at him and Grantaire hastily dropped his gaze, hoping he’d rearranged his expression fast enough.

“Oh, I’ve been everywhere in Paris.” He said, and realised he might not be joking, “It’s by far the most useful thing anyone can do whilst studying a degree. Plus you’ve seen my flat. It’s a little thin on the ground for edible contents.” 

Enjolras looked as if he wanted to say something to that, but was interrupted by the emergence of a flustered and impatient waiter to their table, and Grantaire was glad, because he’d derailed himself once again with memories of Enjolras in his apartment. 

“Well,” Enjolras said setting his menu back in the holder as the waiter tapped a pen impatiently against his notepad, his initial question of asking what they wanted seemingly ignored, “You can order for us then.”

The look he shot Grantaire should not have been fair; a quirk lifting his lips and a glitter in those normally cold eyes, that suddenly blazed with an unexpected warmth that seemed to incinerate much of Grantaire’s desperately controlled façade. So he choked out the name of the first thing on the menu he could vaguely remember liking and gave up his barrier, left drumming his legs agitatedly against the floor and resisting the strong urge to ram his head against the table. 

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asked after a moment, and he looked up to meet his frown, abruptly planting his feet still and realizing that any semblance or self-control had shattered with that warm look Enjolras had given him. 

“I…I’m fine.” He said, and there was that stupid false grin again, as he sunk down in his chair and hoped it was the table leg his foot knocked and not Enjolras’s leg. “Just…” He trailed off to pull a quick face in an attempt to summon some light-heartedness towards himself, “Just wondering what’s happening I suppose.”

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asked him, and unless Grantaire was imagining it, his mind betraying him yet again, Enjolras didn’t seem impatient, his tone suddenly lacking the terseness that was usually weighted any response to Grantaire’s comments. 

“Why are you buying me food?” Grantaire heard himself blurting, because at this point, most attempts at self-preservation had gone out that rain-misted window. 

“I thought you said you’d pay me back.” Enjolras said pointedly, eyes calm but Grantaire was sure that there was a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and Grantaire wondered how exactly this was happening and if it was physically possible for his heart to tumble from his chest.

“You know what I mean.” He managed to say, as a free jug of water was dispensed at their table by a passing waiter and Grantaire might have laughed at that because wow, that was nowhere near strong enough to help him through this, “Exactly when have we ever sat opposite one another in a restaurant? You know what, I didn’t even think you ate food.”

Enjolras studied him thoughtfully for a moment, ignoring the weak jibe, and Grantaire’s legs struck up their erratic rhythm once again, the scrutiny and undivided attention playing havoc with his mind. There was almost a squirming pleasure to it, underneath the layers of insecurity and utter perplexity and _how_ was it possible to feel so utterly and bewilderingly lost and splintered but never more whole than when he sat here with Enjolras before him; the sunlight stroking the curls of his still slightly damp hair, calm eyes cast on him. 

“You’re right.” Enjolras finally said, that calm, unreadable look still appraising him, and then something in his expression shifted, “Are you uncomfortable?”

The snort Grantaire let out was perhaps not the best method of answering that particular question, and Enjolras emitted a small amused sigh. And he had no clue as to what Enjolras was thinking. 

“I think, maybe…” He heard himself saying slowly, hands gripping the wooden table, as he began to rise from his seat, “Maybe I should go. Don’t worry, the couscous won’t go unremembered.” 

Even before Enjolras moved, Grantaire had paused, and they’d both seen it; reluctance etched in every part of him as he hovered before the table, so unwilling to leave and they both knew it.

And then Enjolras leant forwards slowly, a quick glance flicked towards the ceiling as if he were exasperated. His fingers hit against Grantaire’s hand, still on that table, and fixed over his knuckles; a grip loose and warm and utterly flooring. 

Electricity, Grantaire thought. Perhaps he could feel Enjolras’s veins humming with blood against his own; the warmth of his skin seeming to burn hotter than the sun lighting the raindrops tapping the windowpane beside them. And it felt so _right_ , he thought. This was how all things should end. Enjolras’s hand on his. 

“Sit down, Grantaire.” He said, “Or do we have to argue about this as well?” 

He wasn’t asking, or pleading, and Grantaire doubted he had ever done the latter, and certainly not where he was concerned. Enjolras still had every trace of composure and equanimity that set his shoulders straight and betrayed nothing as he leant forwards, eyes glittering with that intelligence and pensiveness that Grantaire believed in and revered like he never had with anything else. He hated to think what he looked like compared to this composed, so unintentionally overbearing figure sat before him. 

“We argue about everything already,” He said after a moment, heaving a sigh that didn’t sound as falsely theatrical as he had intended, a wry smile wrapping his lips upwards. And he sat back down, wondering if he could even have managed to walk away, “In case you hadn’t noticed.” 

“Perhaps that we can agree on.” Enjolras allowed and Grantaire couldn’t tell if he looked pleased, because although he had come to devotedly study and know him in a way that far outpaced how he knew himself, lately it seemed everything had been scattered, confused like the dead leaves that would flurry upwards from the boulevards of Paris in a sudden breeze. And he couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment of this change. Or if it had even occurred, a corner of his mind prodded. 

Enjolras didn’t speak again until their food arrived a minute or so later, steaming warm couscous that contributed a little contentment and stability towards Grantaire’s hurtling mind. Unconsciously, he’d been cradling the hand Enjolras had stayed, as if hoping to retain the warmth that had sparked at that touch.

“This is good.” Enjolras said after a time, waving a fork towards his plate in what might have been a dismissive manner if not for his words, a hand straying to check his phone once again.

“Wow, are you actually acknowledging a simple pleasure of life?” Grantaire smirked, because that was far, far easier than saying anything else, “I’ve seen you snub beautiful landscapes and spend whole nights sober. I guess this is progress.”

“I’m fairly sure getting drunk is _not_ one of the simple pleasures of life.” Enjolras directed back instantly and this was better, Grantaire thought, this was comfortable and easy. Lightly disagreeing with and mocking Enjolras; happy to have him counter straight back was safer, this was something he knew, some segment of normality that he could cling to as his heart was thrown out to a churning sea.

“Of course it is. Food and drink are the keystones to happiness, I’m told.”

“As well as beautiful landscapes apparently.” Enjolras added, and he looked tiredly amused. But the phone went ignored for the rest of while that they both sat there.

The rain held throughout the rest of their meal. Enjolras had paid as he had said he would, although there was no hint of him ever forgetting that Grantaire owed him, but Grantaire had still let his heart hammer unsteadily as Enjolras had dragged the bill towards him, because he knew what this past hour or so had looked like and that masochistic side of himself relished its existence and let the aching knowledge of its falsehood hurt. 

“I’m meeting Combeferre at the library in half an hour.” Enjolras told him as the bustle of Paris reclaimed them once again. He was working his coat back on, having discarded it in the past hour because perhaps the sun had gained some strength as it began to crest towards the skyline in earnest; heading to duck behind the high asymmetrical buildings crowned with slate grey roofs when the moon would claim the sky instead.

“Whichever one it is, I’m sure I can’t go there.” Grantaire told him, perhaps to save Enjolras feeling obligated to invite him, “I have library fines accumulated from when I actually had inclination to write good essays. That was a while ago, by the way.”

Enjolras shook his head at that, hands digging into his pockets, and after a second he met his gaze steadily.

“And I bet they were great essays.” He said, as if he were reflecting on something, and Grantaire could only think of a few reasons why he had said that, but he wasn’t sure he liked many of them.

The goodbye he finally gave Enjolras was halting and staggered, and when he finally found himself moving, alone, along the street as Enjolras headed in the opposite direction, each step he took away from him drove into his mind, but his heart felt no calmer and he could summon little happiness from that past hour, which he hated himself for, because how much more could he dare ask for? 

Enjolras had the unknowing ability to never make him feel more painfully alive than when he was by him, so painfully alive that he’d never felt his heart beat faster or his blood pulse so forcefully throughout every part of him. So painfully he felt that maybe some invisible hand had punched him in the gut every time he was near him, and even when he wasn’t the pain was still there. A pain that was muted perhaps, but stoppered sleep and dragged forwards his doubts and misgivings and the nearest bottles of cheap vodka. And he would lean out his bedroom window as the clouds above Paris unleashed their rain; torrents from the dark sky that seeped every colour into its neighbour. He’d clutch his windowsill, lean forwards until his brain mutedly warned him that he may fall, and then as usual whenever faced with a great height he would wonder whether the fall would kill him. And he’d fallen for Enjolras far too long ago to remember, if there had even been a time when he hadn’t known somewhere in his heart just who that organ belonged to, along with every other part of him. 

It was with the burden of these thoughts that he walked a long time through the crowds and slow moving traffic, as the warm air of spring crept onto the stage of the city, and the soft taps of rainwater dripping from the awnings of cafés sounded something like applause.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ASLJalsfhfdjk can I just say I love you all thank you so much for reading this! Sorry this chapter took a while to post I really had to battle my way through it but now exams are over *hoooraaay* so I'll hopefully be uploading a little faster! ...so she says.


	9. It was always Paris and you changed as it changed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein a toaster triumphs over Bahorel, Bossuet gets locked out (again), and Enjolras finds sunshine amongst rainstorms.

Bossuet wasn’t particularly surprised that he had forgotten the key to the flat he shared with Joly and Jehan; he knew he had left at least one essential item when he had rushed out the apartment that morning to his lecture, and right now he could picture the exact spot on the kitchen counter where the said key was lying, next to the stale packet of cereal they kept forgetting to throw out. 

So it was with a tired laugh of resignation that he flattened himself against the wall to their tenement block, trying to avoid the raindrops and lamenting that today had to be the day that their downstairs door had been fixed to admit only those who owned a key. Still, at least the rain had a hiss of warmth to it, as the spring that Bossuet had so missed in Paris had finally dawned, summer almost creeping along with it as if the accompanying warmth was too eager to wait. But the rain was still wet, and he was still drenched as he pulled out his phone and called the most used name in his contacts list. 

Joly picked up his phone on the second ring, just as Bossuet was wiping the rain flecking his glasses on the collar of his jacket, the bag of groceries he had looped over his arm rustling loudly. 

“Are you ok?” Joly asked immediately, because he had caller identification and it dawned on Bossuet that maybe he should ring Joly just to hear his voice now and again, and not because he needed assistance. 

“I’ve locked myself out.” He said, and it was a mark of Joly’s unfaltering patience and good nature that he didn’t sigh, “I tried the doorbell but I think it’s broken. Are you in?”

“Yep! Give me one second.”

Joly didn’t buzz Bossuet in as he had been expecting, but emerged, clad in an overlarge jumper, a minute or so later at the iron gate that served as a front door, swinging it open with a grin on his face,

“I passed the MCQs!” He beamed the moment he’d dragged him inside out of the rain, brushing droplets from Bossuet’s shoulders as he pulled him to a halt in the hallway.

“What? That’s fantastic!” Bossuet immediately forgot the wetness of his clothing as he threw his arms around Joly; enfolding him into a soggy embrace, “You were so worried about that exam!”

“I got the second highest grade too.” Joly added a little sheepishly, working hard to keep the pleased grin from his face as he started to lead Bossuet back up the winding staircase towards their apartment. The floor beneath them was slippery from previous wet feet; pools of water muddy from the shoes of all the people who lived here, people that they rarely met. 

The pride in Joly’s voice made Bossuet’s heart swell, because although Joly appeared carefree and cheerful, and well, _jolly_ , so frequently, he worked so hard, too hard. And Bossuet had been the one to see him collapsed asleep at the coffee table against medical books and papers in the middle of the night, the glasses he insisted he needed slipping down his nose. Bossuet was the one who had seen that cheerful nature slip into worry and exhaustion, and that was when the world didn’t make sense in his eyes. 

So the quick kiss he stole before they’d opened the door to their apartment was one of respite, for him and for Joly he supposed, as his stray hand traced the contours of the face he knew so well and Joly heaved a small, contented sigh against his lips.

“Combeferre and that lot asked if we wanted to come over for seven thirty.” Joly said after a time, one hand still on the door handle and his breathing soft against Bossuet’s skin.

“I got some stuff for dinner.” Bossuet told him, lifting the grocery bag he’d held forgotten in the hand not skirting across Joly’s face, “There was a great bargain at this market stall on those spices you like. Unless you’d rather go out to eat to celebrate?”

“No.” Joly said firmly, beginning at last to unlock to door, “No, it’s horrible outside and I’d rather be warm in here, with no one else around.” He pushed the door open, seeming to be unaware one of his hands had entwined in Bossuet’s as he moved into their warm apartment that was lit with the fairy lights Jehan had strung about the curtain rail and across some of the faulty cupboards.

“Is Jehan not in?” Bossuet asked, after kicking off his shoes and nearly knocking the potted flowers Jehan had set on the plastic table by the door.

“He’s at Courfeyrac and Marius’s I believe.” Joly replied, moving forwards to take the grocery bag from Bossuet. Bossuet couldn’t have said exactly how, but the bag ended up on the floor with a soft, dejected rustle, and Joly’s fingers were gripping his wrist, soft and gentle as he smiled at him. 

“So there’s no one else here?” Bossuet repeated thickly, because he’d taken a step closer to Joly and really, it made it far too hard to concentrate. The rain had seeped through to the shirt under his coat, and his shoulders were damp, but it went ignored. Joly made a light noise of confirmation in the back of his throat.

“And we have at least an hour before we have to leave.” He pointed out, drawing closer, that grin of his, that grin Bossuet knew so well that seemed to bring the warmth even on drizzly spring days, a grin that had suddenly turned not very innocent at all. “And I don’t know about you, but I think the food can wait a little longer.”

And regardless of whether or not Joly had earned yet another exam certificate that showed the sharpness of his mind, right then Bossuet easily decided he was one of the cleverest people in Paris. Or even, he amended as they stumbled in the direction of their room, hands travelling over clothing in a new tenacious hunt for bare skin, one of the most ingenious in the world. 

Bossuet might have been hungry before, standing out in that rain-washed street, but he no longer felt it, nor cared one single bit.

* * *

Cosette’s fingers were wound almost absently through Marius’s, as they sat together on the sofa piled carelessly with throws and cushions in Combeferre, Feuilly and Bahorel’s flat. Paris glittered her city streetlights at them through the window, that hadn’t been closed as the night had drawn in so Feuilly could smoke his cigarettes when he had arrived back from work.

Marius hoped the looks he kept sneaking at Cosette were not as obvious as he felt they were. He’d only meant to look at her once as Combeferre was speaking to him a few minutes ago, but there had been a sheen to her hair, the blaring, harsh light above them lighting the side of her face in a way that made her dazzling to him, and how he could only have looked once was utterly beyond him. He had gathered the idea of late that a little piece of the sun must have been ensnared in the girl beside him; with her quick laughs and easy smiles, and what he’d done to deserve her rays was something that Marius, clever as he supposed he was, could hardly comprehend. 

Cosette’s unfalteringly warm nature had clearly endeared her to his friends as well in the few days that they had known her, shown with the text they’d both received that had invited them over as they had been lazing beside the Seine, on their jackets in defiance of the rain washed seats. The trees there along the riverbank bore the marks of couples who had sat in that very same spot, their hands entwined too, but Marius knew they had never been as lucky as him.

Marius jumped as the front door was slammed open, having missed the tell-tale clinking of keys, and tore his eyes from Cosette as she laughed at a comment Feuilly had made in time to see Bahorel fling himself into the apartment, marching forwards to collapse onto the sofa, which skidded forwards somewhat under the force of his landing.

“I’m _exhausted._ ” He announced, flinging an arm across his face, and Marius took this to be his method of greeting, as his spare hand tugged at the sleeve of the shirt he’d borrowed from Courfeyrac. “I actually _went_ to my lecture today.”

“Should we throw a party?” Feuilly asked curiously, “Or did you just spend it making caricatures of the lecturer?” 

“If there’s a party, everyone buys me alcohol.” Bahorel continued, an arm still covering his face, “I spent all my money today on coffee and two new jackets.” He enforced this by holding up the carrier bag in his free hand in mock victory. 

“They’re…colourful.” Combeferre supplied, after glimpsing the bag’s contents.

“Good evening, Cosette.” Bahorel carried on, removing the arm from his face so he could see her, “It is very nice to see you again.”

“And you, Bahorel.” Cosette said brightly, “Think you’ll be any luckier at rummy later?”

“I’m still convinced you cheated.” Bahorel grumbled good-naturedly, hauling himself off the sofa to head towards the adjoining kitchen, “Pontmercy hid the cards in his jumper sleeves or something.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Cosette sang, before Marius could defend himself.

“Everyone’s on their way here, by the way.” Combeferre told Bahorel as he began rummaging in the fridge, “Sorry, we should have told you.”

“As long as that segment of sofa there remains mine I have no problem with people.” Bahorel told him, or at least, that was what Marius gathered he had said, because he was speaking around a carton of orange juice and it was really a little hard to tell.

Marius’s attention shifted slightly as Cosette flicked her hair over her shoulder, her fingers still tangled in his. There was something about her grip, warm and firm and unquestioning from the very first time they had touched that had seemed to anchor his heart and his mind amidst the spinning flow of wonder that she kicked up.

The rest of them arrived throughout the next half hour; Jehan and Courfeyrac, then Eponine and Grantaire, and Joly and Bossuet and Enjolras last; Enjolras because he’d been  
busy, and the other two because they’d apparently eaten first, no matter what Courfeyrac said about definite afterglow.

There was an ease to which Cosette slotted herself into their company, sharing a joke with Joly and recommending a book to Jehan, that Marius might have envied if he hadn’t been so captivated by the way her smile seemed so infectious. Captivating was a word made for Cosette, Marius thought; that same kind of captivating that fixed his eyes to the stars, and ensnared his mind in dreams. But Cosette was no dream. She was real, and there beside him with her hand in his, a person who had stepped bright and smiling into Marius’s reality. A reality of battered furniture and borrowed clothing that he could so often find glum and dull and sad. 

His friends seemed in high spirits that evening, toasting a euphoric Joly who had passed his latest exam. With the second highest mark out of all the candidates, as Bossuet kept proudly chiming in whenever the subject was brought up. Grantaire had settled on the expanse of sofa behind Marius’s head, exchanging sallies with Courfeyrac, who had flung his arms around Marius and Cosette in greeting and hadn’t quite managed to extricate himself from them, and the small apartment was noisy with their voices.

“Which of you fuckers keeps changing the toast settings?” Bahorel growled from the kitchen, where the scent of burnt toast came floating across with his voice, “I like my toast a _medium gold_ goddammit.” 

“He’s really quite fluffy once you get to know him, isn’t he?” Cosette mused.

“The scar on my right arm says otherwise.” Feuilly muttered, seizing the iPod that Courfeyrac had produced from his pocket and left lying by the docking station, and spending the next few moments scrolling through its contents, shaking a head in exasperation at what Marius knew to be a rather impressive collection of upbeat songs whose lyrics he could never quite decipher. 

But Feuilly seemed to overcome his initial distaste of Courfeyrac's music selection, and Marius watched with amusement as the heavily auto tuned music jarred against any conversation, Courfeyrac giving a crow of pleasure, and Enjolras looking like he would really quite like to head for the door.

“You know,” Courfeyrac said after a moment, tugging at Marius’s shoulder in a conversational manner, “You two beauties should come out with Jehan and I sometime. We could pretend to be boring adults, wouldn’t that be fun?” 

“You’ve never asked Joly and I on a double date.” Bossuet told him, looking like he was working hard to appear offended.

“We’d be outnumbered.” Courfeyrac shot back and Jehan choked on the cider Feuilly had handed him a few minute ago. 

“-would help as it’s your course, R.” Combeferre was saying, his voice carrying and catching Marius’s often fleeting attention, as Combeferre sat up so he could glimpse Grantaire over Marius’s head.

Grantaire, who had been on his feet with Eponine, teaching her to twirl under his arm without stumbling, and laughing through an unlit cigarette as he did so, now sat back against the sofa, brushing against Marius and sinking so he was suspended by his legs hooking over its back.

“I _could_.” He mused, patting Marius gratefully on the shoulder as Marius ducked out the way of a precariously held wine bottle. “Or I could save myself the waste of energy.”

“It’s not that hard to give someone a pamphlet.” Enjolras snapped instantly, and Grantaire’s eyes didn’t move because they had already been fixed on Enjolras.

“Yeah, but I really don’t want to.” He said, head lolling back to grin upside down at his adversary. “I’ll just stick to this bottle of wine, ‘the wild wine that sets the wisest man to sing at the top of his lungs and laugh like a fool.’” 

“Grantaire,” Came Combeferre’s voice tiredly before Enjolras could speak, a frown cast on his face, “Sit up, you’re going to choke.”

“-But I was thinking a three course meal,” Marius dragged his attention back to Courfeyrac, who was lolling back against him as he chatted to Cosette. “A starter, pudding; the works.”

“Yeah we all have that kind of money.” Jehan told Courfeyrac with a wry smile, twisting in his position on the floor to catch Courfeyrac’s eye, and Marius felt a brief rush of silent gratitude to him. 

“Why won’t you admit this will help?” Enjolras didn’t appear to have dropped Grantaire’s deliberate dismissal for whatever task they were considering, and Marius shot him an uncomfortable look as his voice grew louder. Next to him he felt Courfeyrac stiffen slightly and heave a small sigh.

“Because it _won’t_.” Grantaire was still smiling as he replied, but he felt rigid next to Marius, as if he were tensing himself, preparing for the moment when Enjolras would snap and Marius wished he wouldn’t, because the unpredictability of Enjolras when he was angry perturbed him immensely. But it never seemed to dissuade Grantaire. “Good lord. Why are you so desperate to get me out there with a picket?” 

“Because I thought you would _care_ ,” Enjolras’s jaw was growing more gritted as he came to rest solely on Grantaire, his voice carrying over the strains of the still playing music and Marius and Courfeyrac weren’t the only ones who had noticed the rising disharmony. Feuilly exchanged a quick look with Bahorel, before turning the music up slightly. “And this would be your chance to do something about it.”

“Oh yeah,” Grantaire scoffed before reciting in a sarcastic tone, a foot rocking stiffly in time to the music, “‘Give me a place to stand and I will move the earth.’”

“Stop quoting Homer and _listen_ for _fuck’s_ sake.”

“Oh, you _swore_ , oh, Apollo my delicate ears.” Teeth flashed in an upside-down smile at Enjolras. “Am I really riling you that much?”

Enjolras heaved a levelling sigh, eyes fluttering closed for a moment, before fixing Grantaire with a look that would have sent Marius scurrying behind the sofa if it had been directed at him.

“Are you just doing this to annoy me?” He asked and Grantaire gave a short, harsh laugh.

“Oh yeah cos everything I do is centred around you.”

“I don’t know, isn’t it?” Enjolras snapped tartly.

Grantaire didn’t hide his expression quickly enough for Marius to miss the hurt that flashed across it, and he at last sat up, the wine bottle knocking against Marius’s knee.

“Fuck you, Enjolras.” He sighed, the words quiet as if his heart was not behind them, sliding off the sofa as he staggered to his feet.

“I will knock your heads together.” Bahorel informed them with a growl, slamming a hand down on the docking station so the song that had faltered slightly and allowed Enjolras and Grantaire’s exchange to carry loud across the company once again overrode the suddenly uncomfortable atmosphere. Marius bit his lip as he watched Enjolras, but he didn’t seem to be about to grow more enraged. His face was flushed, brows lowered and lips cast down, but there was a lack of tension to his shoulders, and his gaze was not cast on Grantaire who had moved away from the settee, but on some indiscernible point on the far wall. 

Marius did not see Grantaire leave the apartment, having been dragged into conversation with Cosette and Bossuet, and he let the perturbed expression Enjolras wore pull away from his mind. He missed a lot of things, he later reflected, through pure inability to tear his mind away from its focuses, whatever they happened to be at that moment. For a long time his focus had been his sustainment, when he had found himself poor and utterly reliant on himself. But lighter times had somehow found him against all odds, and it was the girl beside him now that claimed all Marius could offer. Cosette had become his main attention, the person his mind dwelt on in the sunlit hours and dreamed about as the moon and stars claimed the sky over Paris. And perhaps he felt a little guilty that so many other things slipped by him and his concentration could wane so easily, but that was how he functioned and the only way he could.

So Marius did not see Grantaire slip out of that apartment, and Enjolras’s words of ‘I’ll be right back’ came inattentively across his mind, and were thrown back and dismissed into some part of his head that if he later reviewed, had little bearing on his thoughts.

* * *

The night air was draped with the tangy scent of rain as Enjolras closed the front door to the tenement block, raindrops wetting his hands as they dripped from the iron gate.

The street wasn’t dark despite the twilight that set the sky above him with a dull purple shade; the neon lights of cafes and streetlamps on the buildings setting the narrow road with jarring electric light.

Grantaire was long out of sight, and Enjolras couldn’t have said what made him turn left instead of right, heading towards the river, footsteps falling rapid, the slap of water from the soles of his shoes loud despite the thrum of noise that always accompanied nights in the heart of a crawling, unsleeping city.

Anger was swarming about inside his chest, forcing his breathing shallow and his hands to become fists at his sides as he walked. And he knew that that anger, that had so quickly risen at Grantaire just five minutes ago, was now directed utterly at himself. He’d fallen wrong, yet again it would seem, and words he hadn’t meant had risen on his lips and _how_ did that always happen with Grantaire. His mind was tired and confused and torn and whilst he couldn’t sleep because images of crowds and shouting and pickets coloured his mind, perhaps a little of his restlessness could be attributed to the dark haired student with shadows under his eyes and quick smiles on his lips. He was a mystery to Enjolras, in-between all the certainty and surety that made up his thoughts and dreams. A riddle that would swing from intolerability to tenderness like a flash of lightning, and perhaps tempests were the best way to describe Grantaire, because the movements of Enjolras’s heart that he barely understood and hadn’t quite yet recognized for what they were could only be compared to such vast, terrifying wonderment. 

Perhaps it had been the days they hadn’t talked, or the day Grantaire had asked him with bitter smiles to leave his flat that he’d been aware of it, something that moved far past his normal irritation and frustration at Grantaire and hurtled straight over amicability. Perhaps it was sitting in that restaurant, not quite understanding why he had wanted Grantaire there but averse to the idea of him leaving. Or perhaps it had been when he’d brushed shoulders with him in that decrepit tree, twisted branches waving to a sky dark with unshed rain as the countryside tumbled out below them.

Whenever, wherever, whatever it had been, or if it hadn’t been any select point at all but had somehow always been a part of Enjolras, buried out of even his sight, there was a drag that Grantaire seemed to provide; as if he were some kind of magnet, or a bright light Enjolras could not ignore. That humoured him a little, that Grantaire’s sceptical and mocking and disbelieving state was somehow bright now to him. And that brightness had somehow attached itself to Enjolras’s thoughts, in a way that seemed to go past his mind, but sunk into every part of him, into his very bloodstream. Grantaire, clever and sad and unhealthy and determinedly inept felt like some part of Enjolras. He had found himself immersed in Grantaire’s voiced contradictions, and not for the hope that an undercurrent of resolve lay inside him, because that was too often thrown back in his face. He wouldn’t give up on that, because Enjolras did not give up. But where Grantaire was concerned, he had looked further and wondered and Grantaire had crept into his veins. 

He was lost, his mind endlessly whirring with so much, and confusion did not sit well with him and yet had sat with him for so long. 

And he didn’t know what he’d say to Grantaire when and if he ever found him as he crossed one of the boulevards of the Second Empire, the city lights gleaming in the Seine, because words had somehow fallen short with Grantaire every time he had tried to speak to him, like they weren’t enough anymore and Enjolras’s mind was too turbulent to know quite what to say.

The lonely figure on Pont Royal drew his attention as he neared the bridge, and Enjolras’s heart lurched as he came closer and recognized the curling hair. 

Grantaire was sitting, balanced on the edge of the bridge, legs cast down to the water as he kicked his heels meditatively against the stone, the glint of a beer bottle in his hands. The stars glittered idly through the smoggy horizon above the Ferris wheel in the Jardin des Tuileries just past his thin figure. 

He looked up as he heard Enjolras’s footsteps, surprise flashing across his face for a moment, and then a small smile slid onto his face, as if he'd just constructed a wall about him.

“Evening, Apollo.” He said in those light tones he so constantly used, and Enjolras missed the hitch in his voice as he missed most things about Grantaire, and instead focused on the flash of his strained smile. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to jump.”

Enjolras didn’t respond to that as he laid a hand against the stone, damp meeting his skin before taking his jacket off and setting it down. Grantaire didn’t speak either as Enjolras sat a metre or so away, swinging his legs over the barrier. And perhaps Grantaire’s eyes were flickering too often to Enjolras for him to be calm.

“I’m sorry.” Enjolras said after a time, and immediately hated that word, that inadequate word that Grantaire had every right to reject.

And he did.

“Yeah.” He said with a hollow laugh, dragging a hand over his eyes, and exhaling as he looked at the water flowing beneath their feet. “I’m sure you are. Do you reckon you were wrong again? Be careful, someone might think you’re not perfect after all.”

“Why do you always have to do that?” Enjolras snapped and Grantaire seemed to grow more derisive.

“Well your humility didn’t last long.” He snorted, a hand coming up to his face, knuckles tracing along his temple as if to shield himself from looking at Enjolras. And Enjolras felt he didn’t bristle at that, but instead his shoulders sunk low and he let out a low noise of frustration, at Grantaire and at himself, reaching to move his own hair behind his ears and trying to pull forward words that would mean Grantaire would look at him, and without that bitter smile that he was at last realizing he saw far too much. 

“I realize I keep saying things to you,” He finally said slowly, his posture straightening as he spoke, trying to find his feet and hating that he had to. “It seems to be happening a lot more of late-”

“You snapping at me, you mean?” Grantaire smiled weakly, “No, I’m fairly sure that’s always been a thing.”

“It’s not just snapping though is it?” Enjolras stated, and it wasn’t a question, not really, and he turned to face Grantaire, seizing his gaze and holding it. Grantaire looked pale. “I’ve said horrible things to you, and just now-”

“Was spectacularly accurate.” Grantaire choked out with a harsh laugh, and then seemed to realize what he had said as his fingers began to run hurriedly over his jeans, plucking at the wearing fabric. Quickly, he let out a bone weary sigh, which seemed to emanate from every ounce of his body, and he turned his face away again.

“It’s going to rain again I reckon.” He said, his tone unreadable, “You can go if you like. I’m fine.”

Enjolras clenched his jaw as a contestation rose immediately up on his tongue, and he felt he had a headache as the water lapped against the riverbank and the occasional person behind them on the pavement beside the traffic exchanged words with their companions, their footsteps just distinct over the wet sound of rushing tyres on the brightly lit roads. 

Twice in his life he had apologized to Grantaire, and he wondered why he had never done so before; because surely some of his words must have hurt before this past week and he _knew_ some had. These past weeks seemed to have warped and changed Enjolras’s mind-set, just like the spring he hadn’t stopped to study that had stripped the city of its winter features and plunged it towards summer.

And it occurred to him that he didn’t want things to be like they had when winter had still been in Paris, sitting on a bench with Grantaire at the Jardin du Luxembourg with a distance between them as if they were strangers, words only exchanged between them if Grantaire had brought forwards some jibing comment that Enjolras couldn’t rise above. 

And then those words were out of his mouth before he could check them, he who was so constantly in control of the verses he spoke yet perhaps never so around the person beside him now with the Seine rushing beneath their feet.

“I don’t want it to be like this, Grantaire.”

The words sounded clumsy to him, but Grantaire stilled slightly, his feet no longer knocking against the bridge rail, the bottle he’d just raised to his lips lowering instantly.

“And what is this, I wonder?” He mused, more to himself than in question, still not meeting Enjolras’s eye. He spoke next in an almost groan, as if it hurt to ask and Enjolras glimpsed that perhaps Grantaire’s normal defences were more strained than normal, and maybe they weren’t fully raised, just this once. “And why-why do you suddenly care so much?”

Enjolras let the city fill a brief silence between them; the flow of traffic and the flow of water and the flow of crowds a constant thrum in his ears. 

“Because I liked driving you out the city.” He finally told Grantaire, and his voice might have sounded stern, his eyebrows knotted as he spoke but his heart felt oddly warm, “And I liked sitting in that restaurant with you, and I _wish_ I understood you better.” 

And god was that last part true. Even now Grantaire was like some book in a foreign language, a book that was closed to him and something he had tried so hard to piece together, from the words he so carelessly spoke, to the swirls of colours he stuck to canvases perhaps as casually as he treated the rest of his life. And it wasn’t for the simple satisfaction of understanding Grantaire, but the feeling that perhaps he had felt since they had met that behind the smirks that lit his blue eyes there were so many things worth seeing, things Enjolras had seen when he had cared to look. And that lit lightning in his chest.

Grantaire’s breathing suddenly seemed shallow, and a hand was tangled in his loose fitting shirt, the neck gaping low at his throat.

“That’s so unfair, Enjolras.” He said, and he still wasn’t looking at him, “Do you even know how unfair that is?” His hand had started working against his chest, knuckling over his heart as if he were in physical pain, “Do you know how much it fucking _hurts _?"__

__“What?” Enjolras was completely nonplussed, tall and still as he sat next to Grantaire and tried to work out how he had made things worse this time._ _

__Grantaire took a measured breath, and sent a look towards him as if he to check that he was really there._ _

__“Let me show you.” He said, and his voice shook slightly._ _

__And Enjolras watched him turn to his left, setting the beer bottle down with a dull chink that was lost to the whir of passing traffic and the lazy lapping of the Seine against the stone bank. And haltingly, Grantaire turned back to him and swung a leg over the barrier, left straddling the bridge edge, a knee knocking against Enjolras’s thigh. His teeth were down on his lower lip, eyes dark and his shoulders gave a small movement as if he were stealing himself._ _

__And his hands trembled as he reached forwards and trailed shaking fingers along Enjolras’s face; from temple to chin._ _

__The kiss he brushed against his lips was soft, a whisper of unshaven skin stroking against him, and Enjolras remained still. The touch was revering and gentle, like the way Grantaire would sometimes look at him and Enjolras might have made to pull away on instinct but something, everything, kept him there, pulled in by Grantaire’s scent; the faint smell of soap and beer, and the way he _tasted_ , a uniqueness that must be Grantaire’s alone._ _

__His hands had stayed resolutely in his lap, fingers laced about one another and when Grantaire moved away he let him, steadily taking in his features; the glimpse of wide eyes as if Grantaire was unbelieving at what he had done._ _

__Whatever had been lying latent in his chest for so long, that dormant fascination that had always seemed to be growing unnoticed and silent now blossomed, like the spring had in Paris, and whilst the turbulent moving of Enjolras’s mind set him lost, he was absolutely certain in his moving forwards and gently seizing his hand round the back of Grantaire’s neck, pressing his lips back against his with a new and unapologetic resolve._ _

__Grantaire made a small noise in the back of his throat, frozen as Enjolras dragged him against him and for a second Enjolras nearly pulled away. But then Grantaire’s hands tentatively laid themselves on his shoulders, skirting upwards to rest just below his jaw. Hands that were still shaking._ _

__Enjolras’s mind was reeling as Grantaire’s closeness caught up with him, his hands matting in those dark curls and Grantaire let out another soft keen as Enjolras’s lips pried his apart, teeth clashing clumsily for the first time. And all the times Enjolras had sat next to Grantaire, all the time he’d shot him down, sitting with straight shoulders and protected by a frown suddenly seemed like a veritable waste._ _

__Grantaire pulled away first, with a gasp as he ducked his head; his hair brushing Enjolras’s profile and he groaned Enjolras’s name in a way that shot thrills unexpectedly down his spine._ _

__“Jesus,” He said in the same, defeated and battered way, his forehead crumpling as a breathy laugh escaped his lips. Lips that were slightly bruised. “What even- oh _god_.” A hand flattened itself against his face, dragging back through his hair and Enjolras watched him, wary and with the feeling that every single one of his senses had been set aflame and every one of them wanted Grantaire’s lips back against his. _ _

“I…should I not have done that?” He asked, his voice halting, his hands knotting into fists to resist the urge to tangle in Grantaire’s hair, to pull down hard on those thick curls. Grantaire let out another laugh, breathless and dizzy as if he couldn’t breathe, swaying slightly where he sat, 

“Shouldn’t have done that…?” He repeated thickly, “Oh my…do you even _know_ how long I’ve dreamed of doing that? God, please don’t be joking with me, please,” He wasn’t looking at Enjolras, eyes flickering erratically upwards as if he really was pleading with some power higher than the rooftops of Paris for the reality of Enjolras beside him, his legs still pressing against Grantaire’s, his heartbeat fitful and his head rushing. 

“Grantaire-” Enjolras began, frowning slightly, unease biting the edges of the stupefaction sparking through his body and his mind had leapt over Grantaire’s words, how he’d wanted to do this long ago and he’d return to that later to curse his own obliviousness. His own utter ignorance. 

Grantaire seemed to ignore the concern in his tone and he pulled his eyes from the night sky and at last he looked at Enjolras, eyes wide; panic, worry and exhilaration etched along his features and Enjolras caved as his hand moved forwards to clasp Grantaire’s in a grip that was tight and warm and real. 

They stayed like that a while, Enjolras’s eyes locked on Grantaire’s, feeling clarity settle about his gaze, the clarity that had swept into his mind clearer than the reflection of the streetlamps in the river below. Grantaire was drinking him in, mouth slightly open, eyes still wide, but with each passing moment his expression slackened and those lively, glittering eyes became calmer, like a storm blown out and sunshine breaking through the clouds. And they sat there, as the city rushed around them, riverboats blaring their horns and the traffic over Pont Royal loud, and the street lights glaring. 

And finally Grantaire smiled, a small smile that wasn’t mocking, or bitter, but genuine and slightly crooked, and _how_ was this the only time Enjolras had seen it directed at him. 

And Grantaire leaned forwards, still hesitant, and kissed Enjolras once more, a kiss still cautious and revering but Enjolras was certain of an added determination to it. And as he felt his pulse quickening once again he realized that he’d given a part of himself to someone who wasn’t a cause; something that wasn’t on the path he’d laid out for himself. 

He’d let his heart divert, following it in a way he never had before, and it felt light, almost as if he’d flung it up to the stars that arched over the city. And it was knotting amongst them now, knotted as they shone timidly through the smog. Or perhaps knotted in Grantaire before him, whose hands were gentle and calloused and who was kissing him as if he shouldn’t. 

And Grantaire was a storm in the way he stirred Enjolras’s mind, the way he sent his pulse pounding through his bloodstream, in anger, in frustration, with the way he studied him, and most of all with this new proximity. But perhaps, Enjolras thought, as he pressed his fingertips to the line of Grantaire’s jaw, revelling the resulting soft, inward gasp and the self-mocking breath of laughter that set Enjolras smiling. Perhaps he had a little of the sun in him too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asdfghjkl AHHH I really hate to do this but I'm going interrailing tomorrow for three weeks which means I will be nowhere near a computer ~~and instead be in Paris being an emotional wreck~~ so I suppose this is a self-inflicted hiatus :C Thank you for everyone reading/commenting/glancing you are all so lovely and make this so unbelievably worthwhile ;v;


	10. I could never be lonely along the river

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fuck, Enjolras.” Grantaire said with something resembling a laugh, and he was shaking again, “Are we really talking about our feelings on top of the Eiffel Tower?”

He woke up to Jehan crying.

They were small, soft sobs, as if he were trying to hide it, but Courfeyrac heard it nonetheless; a small part of his sleeping mind seeming to know, somehow, that something was wrong.

The moonlight that filtered in through the half drawn curtains was kissing Jehan’s shoulders; just hinting at the dusting of freckles there and lighting the stray strands of his hair tumbling down his back. It illuminated every small repressed shake of his body.

“Hey,” Courfeyrac said, bolting up and working a hand into the poet’s hair, a swoop of horror in his stomach, “What’s wrong?”

“Oh..it’s just…” Jehan whispered around an inward gasp, shaking his head as he wiped a hand across his eyes, and Courfeyrac noticed the book folded under the slender fingers still in his lap, “You’ll think I’m stupid. It was just this poem. It was _beautiful._ And tragic. I’m sorry-”

But Courfeyrac was pressing a kiss to his temple, and throwing back the covers,

“I’m making tea,” He announced, oblivious to the fact that it was three in the morning, and that he hit the corner of the dresser on his way out because it was too dark to see and he wasn’t quite used to the layout of Jehan’s room yet. 

Jehan had made a sputtered noise of weak protest as Coufeyrac had clambered out of bed, and he was still sitting slumped upright when Courfeyrac re-entered the room a few minutes later with two cups of steaming tea. He looked like he’d only just stopped crying.

“Courfeyrac,” He murmured, like just to say his name was a comforting thing, as Courfeyrac handed Jehan his tea; before setting his own down on the bedside table and climbing back in amongst the covers, shuffling over to Jehan and winding his arms around him from behind; cradling him against his bare torso. 

“It must have been a wonderful poem.” Courfeyrac whispered to him, arms wrapping around him almost instinctively. Jehan let out a little shaky gasp, and wiped his eyes again.

“It really was.”

He fell silent again, his mind seemingly trapped within those printed letters, and Courfeyrac held him silently too, because he didn’t feel he had anything to say and because he hoped the warmth of his embrace would help even slightly. 

He wondered if Jehan could feel his heart falter when he sank against Courfeyrac’s chest, taking a wobbly sip of too-hot tea, his tangled hair smoothed back by Courfeyrac’s fingers. And he wondered if Jehan could feel Courfeyrac’s mind turning, his heart spinning as if re-orbiting itself to the person beside him as easily and effortlessly as breathing.  
And he wondered if it was love he was feeling in his heart. And then wondered if there was any way it had ever been anything else.

* * *

March was heading into April, and the sun that would appear between the showers of rain grew stronger and fiercer, making the pale stone bridges spanning the Seine gleam and the trees scattered about the gardens of Paris grow lusher and cast dappled light to the cobbles and grass below them. The streams of traffic on the boulevards seemed to slow to a crawling pace, the laziness of summer settling in, windscreens glaring in the sunlight as they emerged from the road under the jardin des Tuileries.

Bahorel had happily echoed that steady idleness, and had settled himself on the bank of the Seine in between Pont Neuf and the Pont des Arts. He was about eighty per cent sure he had a lecture over towards the other side of Paris, but how anyone was supposed to endure the stuffy Metro at three in the afternoon was beyond him. So instead he’d sat with his feet cast towards the river, waiting for company with a book from his course on his lap that was going somewhat ignored in favour of the printed sheet of paper displaying the second hand moped he’d been contemplating buying for the past few days or so. Combeferre had once put it in that mild eloquent way of his that perhaps Bahorel spent a little too much on useless items. Well, self-indulgent items had been his phrasing but the indication was still there. Bahorel supposed he had held a point. 

“But _mopeds_.” He muttered to himself.

His phone buzzed against the stone of the riverbank and he reached out lazily to swipe at it to see the resulting message. To his surprise, it was from Enjolras, apparently  
referring to the text he had just sent out to the most frequently used numbers on his contact list.

_Was that a group message?_

Bahorel frowned at that a while, unsure of the desired answer Enjolras was aiming for. 

_Yes?_ He finally responded, and tagged a confused frowny face Feuilly had taught him to do to the end of it before hitting send. 

Enjolras didn’t reply, and Bahorel promptly forgot his confusion over that brief text exchange when he spotted Grantaire amongst the groups of people sitting along the bank; weaving between buskers and those enjoying their lunch breaks on the benches between trees engraved by couples.

Bahorel was not the most observant of people, so he didn’t notice how exhausted Grantaire looked, or the way his hands danced at his sides as he settled himself down next to him, feet kicking restlessly against the bank, a constant jitteriness to him, some kind of new raw, unexplainable edginess.

“It seems I am the first to relieve you of your solitude.” He announced unnecessarily with a grandiose arm gesture to the empty stretch of bank, as his free hand reached in the pocket of his jeans for a lighter, “You can pay a round in gratitude tonight, right?”

Bahorel snorted.

“Yeah, _right._ ” 

“Or,” Grantaire continued, feet rocking as he lit a cigarette and leaning over to rap his knuckles on the picture of the moped, “You could give me first ride on that.”

Bahorel was saved no so politely rejecting that offer by the arrival of Enjolras and Courfeyrac. He didn’t notice that Grantaire seemed to momentarily forget about the cigarette in his mouth and let his jaw slacken slightly, face paling, or the way his limbs immediately stopped their restless rhythm for a split fraction of time. Any later gossiping with Feuilly would have been much more lucrative if he had noticed. 

“Well look how popular I am.” He instead grinned easily, leaning back on a hand to take in the two of them, “I’m guessing you both have lectures this way in half an hour, right? Are you ok, Enjolras, your face looks sunburnt?”

“I’m fine.” Enjolras said stiffly, not glancing at Bahorel and instead looking directly at the spot beyond Bahorel’s shoulder where Grantaire was seated. Bahorel supposed for a moment that they hadn’t resolved what had sent Grantaire from their flat last night, but there didn’t seem to be anger in Enjolras’s expression. If anything, he looked torn between discomfort and some kind of fervour Bahorel didn’t really recognize. 

“Jehan is wonderfully sunburnt from this morning.” Courfeyrac announced happily, seeming to miss whatever had passed between Enjolras and Grantaire and flopping down beside Bahorel, knocking his shoulder and not heeding Bahorel’s growl of annoyance. “And all his freckles are coming out.”

“Hooray?” 

“So is that the moped you were talking about?” Courfeyrac ploughed on relentlessly, ever the centre of conversation that somehow always left Bahorel feeling drained whenever he had gone, as if he taken a ball of energy with him. 

“No.” He responded flatly, and Courfeyrac didn’t pay any attention to him, because he’d never faltered at Bahorel’s sarcastic nature, had never been tripped by false hostility from the moment they’d met in a crowded student bar in Paris. 

“If you’re not getting it in an obnoxiously red shade I don’t know you as well as I thought I did.” Courfeyrac informed him, snatching the page with the moped’s details from him just as Combeferre tapped Enjolras’s shoulder in greeting, a fist closed around a bag laden with books, “Can I ride it first?”

“ _No._ ” Bahorel told him instantly, partly because Courfeyrac had been completely right about his colour of choice, but mostly because the construed mental image of Courfeyrac riding his bike was a little painful. 

“Why not?” Courfeyrac pouted.

“We all know what happened to the last vehicle you drove.” Combeferre put in quietly. 

“You took it to the palace that silently screams out with the atrocities of her past.” Grantaire cut in, and they all shot him a quick, surprised look.

“Yes,” Bahorel said, drawing the word out slowly, still taking in the fervent expression on Grantaire’s face, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright, his movements still erratic, “That’s so the reason.” 

“Are you alright, Grantaire?” Combeferre asked, studying him, “You seem a little…” He trailed off, nose wrinkling as he searched for the word, “Manic?”  
Grantaire gave a bark of laughter and waved a dismissive hand, looking out towards the flowing river where the odd plastic bag that would so incense Enjolras could be seen drifting in the murky depths, rippling like pale ghosts. 

“I just downed a jug of coffee,” Grantaire said, “Don’t mind me.”

“New art project?” Courfeyrac asked sympathetically, the sheet of paper still in his grasp.

“Yep.” Grantaire responded, and he looked over and locked his gaze on Enjolras, hyperactive movements stilling slightly as if he were forcing himself to meet his eye, “Something like that.”

Jehan’s appearance cut across Bahorel’s curiosity, his slight figure appearing from amongst strangers as he tripped slightly on the rough cobbles, too busy looking at the trees that rustled in a wind as lazy as the city’s movements. 

“Hey,” He beamed once he was beside them, the word an exhalation, contentment etched on his face as he hoisted his bag further up his shoulder, “I can’t stay, there’s a reading at Shakespeare and Company I’m going to in a bit,”

“Why do I have lectures?” Courfeyrac asked of the sky, sinking back onto the ground as he flung his arms upwards. Jehan’s lips twitched but he ignored him as he turned to Enjolras and Combeferre, 

“It’s philosophy tonight on the concepts of law and fairness. It’s probably going to be poetry centred, but still…” He broke off with a small, awkward shrug, the smile on his face eager and earnest.

“I’m up for that.” Combeferre told him, stowing away the phone he had just been glancing at, “Enjolras?”  
Bahorel had been studying Enjolras whilst Jehan had spoken, accidentally averted somewhat guiltily by the mention of law, so he saw him studying Grantaire with something near to confusion contorting his features. He snapped his gaze back to Combeferre at the calling of his name.

“Yes.” He said quickly, eyes flickering back to that same point just behind Bahorel where Grantaire was now softly whistling, “I’ll come.”

“You’re running with me later, don’t forget.” Bahorel informed Combeferre as made to turn towards the rough steps that led back up to the Quai François Mitterrand. 

“How could I?” He responded dryly, a glitter of amusement in his eyes. “I never miss an opportunity to jog a few metres behind you.” 

“That’s what I like to hear.”

There was a brief stretch of unusual silence when Combeferre, Enjolras and Jehan had left. Unusual because nobody could say Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Grantaire were the most silent of people. Unusual because Courfeyrac was staring meditatively after Jehan’s retreating back, and Grantaire’s eyes were again fixed on the river, his somewhat wired movements stilling as if he had been preparing himself for a moment that had now passed. It was a small beat of oddity, a missing dynamic, before Courfeyrac shook himself and threw in a joke and then it shattered. 

These observations Bahorel didn’t miss, as he had unknowingly missed other small details. And there was a brief hitch where he wondered just how much he knew was going on in his friends’ minds, behind the smile that Grantaire had thrown on his face as he finished his cigarette. That worried him, the unknowingness mixed with the desire to help; in the strong capacity that he applied to all aspects of his life. 

But for once uncertainty held him back, something he’d never really let hold him back before. Perhaps it was the surety that Grantaire would not tell him of what made his smiles strained, or that he could offer no consolation like Combeferre or Jehan perhaps could. He told himself that, and instead but forwards his best efforts into making his friends laugh, because that ground he felt stable on as they traded jests and quips over the hum of traffic and laughter of others, the Seine glinting below them and the sun moving slowly and lazily over a clear sky.

* * *

The air along the Place du Petit Pont smelt sweet from the clusters of lavender growing in the small garden between the line of restaurants and the busy flow of traffic along the Quai Saint-Michel. The early evening light fell soft on the nearby buildings, the Seine glimmering as it flowed past the Île de la Cité, Notre Dame stretching tall towards a clear sky as if the rains from yesterday had never come.

Grantaire still supposed that perhaps a lot of things hadn’t taken place yesterday. 

He could still feel the pressure against his lips when he hurtled the memory forth, and it felt real. The heat from Enjolras’s skin, the cold stone of the bridge, all real. But remembering it felt like trying to place himself in the experiences of another, like his mind couldn’t quite comprehend what had taken place, that it had fallen on him, because _how_ had his lips met Enjolras’s.

How had Enjolras’s met his in return.

Combeferre had called somewhere in that indecipherable length of time Grantaire had spent with Enjolras on that bridge, had asked if he was alright and Grantaire couldn’t have said whether he was glad or not that he had shattered whatever it had been that had constructed itself around him and Enjolras; pulling them together and setting his hands shaking. 

He felt he was still shaking now, as if Enjolras was still touching him. And his brain would spark at that thought, that incompatible thought, because how could Enjolras have touched him, have pressed his lips against his after so many years of not touching him, of looking disdainfully at him, of _hating_ him. 

And how was he here of all places, Shakespeare and Company just ahead, as if this was the only part of Paris he could exist in, the place where he saw the same sights as him, quick working lungs washing the scent of lavender over his tired senses.

“Grantaire.”

That fucking voice. A voice he felt sure he would know among thousands, millions, no hint of melodrama to it. It had the capacity to make his insides lurch, lifting his heart and setting his mind racing. Alive.

He turned to face him, Enjolras, standing beside him, the ends of his fair hair lit by the sun beginning to kiss the rooftops around them. His expression was gentle, even if there was no trace of a smile on his lips. Those lips. Grantaire had never felt so tired looking at his features, so eclipsed by someone who seemed to burn like a star. 

A rush had come from last night, one that came and strangled his chest and made his throat close. It might have been tears that had constricted his throat, or terror that seemed to make his heart erratic. But there was a giddiness to it, a lightness that made him feel he could fling aside his fears and trepidations if he dared to. Not that he did. And all he wanted to do now was step closer, that wired part of his mind that had driven him forwards on the bridge last night, against every other part of him screaming at him to stop, now urging him to once again press dull kisses to his lips, to drink in his scent, the touch of his skin.

He only realized on later reflection that Enjolras hadn’t spoken again, and had been studying him with a veiled expression Grantaire couldn’t decipher, and couldn’t dare to.

“How was the reading?” He finally made himself ask, any attempt at flippancy hurtling into failure as his voice grated slightly, forcing his hands to reach in his bag for a cigarette because they were shaking again. “Are you brimming with poetical philosophical and anything ‘al’-”

“Last night was not a mistake, Grantaire.” Enjolras said suddenly, breaking him off, his face serious, eyes blazing with what seemed to be determination.

“I’m…sorry?” Grantaire tried, caught trying to light the cigarette he’d tugged free, and trying to calm his racing mind that had suddenly leapt into overdrive. 

“I kissed you.” Enjolras said, as if it had been the simplest thing in the world, as if the action hadn’t made Grantaire’s head reel and made him lie awake all night in some heated fever, as if he wasn’t shaking now at the thought of it, his heart hurtling around his chest, “And it wasn’t a mistake.”

“What…” He broke off as he tried to calm his mind, letting the wash of tobacco cloud out the lavender, cloud out as much as he could, “What are you saying?”

Enjolras’s face was still stern, as it always seemed to be when he was talking to Grantaire, when it wasn’t coloured by anger or disdain. But he took a step closer to Grantaire, that felt to his tired mind too close and nowhere _near_ close enough. 

“I’m saying,” Enjolras said steadily, and Grantaire couldn’t tear his eyes away from his expression that seemed so steely and resolute, because there was something beneath it  
that was drawing him in and in the next moment he realized why as the corner of Enjolras’s mouth lifted hesitantly. “That I am not averse to the idea of repetition.” 

Grantaire didn’t remember sitting down against the iron railings that ran around the small expanse of plants bordering the road, except that suddenly he was.

“Fucking hell.” He muttered and Enjolras stared down at him, eyes still calm and impassive, even if his hands were clenched into fists at his sides, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Enjolras considered him a moment, eyebrows lowered in something perhaps resembling concern.

“Let’s walk somewhere.” He finally said in that decisive tone that Grantaire would follow anywhere no matter how often he would incite anger from it. And with that Enjolras reached down and closed long fingers around Grantaire’s arm, hauling him up the way he had when he had been collapsed dizzy and drunk against his door, forbidding himself to knock.

Grantaire didn’t ask where they were headed as Enjolras led him back onto the Quai Saint Michel, his fingers still worked about his arm, and Grantaire was unsure whether that alone was steadying him or sending his mind hurtling all the more. 

He couldn’t translate Enjolras’s thoughts and actions no matter how hard he thought about them; no matter his staying awake all last night, feverish as he stared restlessly at his ceiling, feet jogging and trying to place how Enjolras had swung from disdain to working his hands in Grantaire’s hair, taking deep, determined breaths as their noses had brushed and jesus how had that happened? And he wouldn’t ask, _couldn’t_ ask, because he was selfish and disbelieving and scared, so scared that it would be taken away, that perfect and absurd memory that didn’t feel like his own. 

And Enjolras was still gripping him, and some rebellious part of Grantaire’s mind, that hopeful part he dared not listen to thought perhaps that grip was as distracting to Enjolras as it was for himself.

They walked in silence along the Seine, where venders were selling postcards and padlocks for the bridges, and Enjolras’s hand had loosened, fingers trailing to grasp around Grantaire’s wrist, fingertips gentle on the bones there, and Grantaire’s head was spiralling and he still couldn’t bring himself to speak, was content to have that strangling feeling claim him again, swallowing him as Enjolras touched him. 

They were not walking fast, and Grantaire had been walking with absolutely no inclination to watch where he was going, so they didn’t turn off into the twisting streets of the city that would occasional open into the large, stretching boulevards. Instead, they followed the idle flowing of the Seine, south past the Pont du Carrousel, past Pont Royal. And Grantaire couldn’t help looking at that bridge, at that spot where last night he’d sat, and perhaps Enjolras shifted his fixed gaze to take it in too. But Grantaire wasn’t sure what was genuine anymore. His eyes and his skin were liars, he was sure. 

The Eiffel Tower rose out from among the rooftops and growing trees as it always did when they travelled this far through Paris; its metal a soft grey in the gathering evening.  
Grantaire had only gone up it once in his life, which was a little absent of him, he supposed. Perhaps he didn’t like the height it gave him above the city, the feeling of detachment and mild vertigo. 

Although, as Enjolras’s fingers continued to seem to burn him, perhaps he found enough of that on the hard pavements of the ground.

“Where are we going?” He finally asked, the flippancy he tried to pour into the short question as some kind of shield falling grating on his own ears.

Enjolras sent him a quick look, face stern as ever and _why_ was he so hard to understand even after so long of watching and learning and craving from afar.

“I’m not sure.” He said.

“What?” Grantaire made himself grin, as if Enjolras’s touch wasn’t making him feel like he needed to sit down, needed to lean further towards him, needed to understand what the hell was happening, “The mighty leader has fallen prey to the tragedy of uncertainty?” 

“It happens more often than your mocking implies, Grantaire.” Enjolras told him, face impassive, but Grantaire caught his gaze, and was entangled in the look between those fair eyelashes. That in itself was no new thing, he could reflect bitterly. No, it was the look in those eyes, and why wasn’t there disdain there anymore, why couldn’t he see the degradation Enjolras placed on him, that Grantaire hunted for like some crazed addict because it made Enjolras focus on him.

He swallowed uneasily, skin hot, betraying him as it erupted in goosebumps as his fingers went to clutch at Enjolras’s, against the part of his mind that so desperately struggled with self-preservation. But that part of his mind had never been his strongest.

Enjolras moved slightly in surprise at the more intentional contact, but his hand stayed where it was, their hands clasped together, and that should not be making it hard for  
Grantaire to breathe, but normality would not have been Enjolras kissing him back on that bridge. So perhaps he didn’t like that elusive things called normality. 

The Quai d’Orsay had somehow merged into the Quai Branly when Grantaire forced his tired, reeling mind to take focus on his surroundings, and he was fairly sure Enjolras had no destination in mind either. Enjolras, who planned everything, who was steady and sure. With Grantaire’s hand entangled in his, he seemed equally lost somehow. 

The trees along the road spanned high and thick, plunging the tarmac into cold shade which soothed Grantaire’s skin until they thinned. The Eiffel Tower was just to their left up  
ahead, iron lattice towering over the arrondissements that surrounded it and Grantaire took it in, the iconic symbol of a city he felt he loved.

Enjolras drew close to him, eyelashes brushing his cheekbones as he looked down at their joined hands, a thumb brushing almost unconsciously over the veins spidering blue across Grantaire’s wrist.

“Have you got seven euros on you?” He asked.

“Huh?”

“Make that fourteen.” Enjolras continued, and fixed Grantaire with another piercing gaze that he would have mistaken for severity if some part of him didn’t know it wasn’t. “You owe me for couscous.” 

Grantaire’s mind was slow and swimming and it took him far too long to realize what Enjolras was saying.

“Oh.” He finally said eloquently. 

It was a Thursday spring evening, and the queue of people that would wind like ants under the Eiffel Tower was far scarcer than it would be with the summer months. Grantaire was silent in the half hour it took them to reach the ticket office, a want of surety weighing heavy on him, pressing him down into the tarmac no matter how much he jogged his feet, restless with inner uproar that had been layered about him for far too long.

He was relieved Enjolras asked for tickets to the second floor, because he’d long since lost track of the proceedings.

Perhaps the ground lifting away from him in that elevator was a relief, to see the streets where he walked mindlessly squashed so low, as if the six storey buildings were no more than dollhouses. Perhaps seeing the city so small made everything seem stupid and trivial, but perhaps he’d spent too long around Jehan’s musings.

Enjolras’s fingers were still tangled through his.

The gentle breeze that had flown along the river, weaving between the high buildings was a bitter wind one hundred or so metres above the streets of Paris. It streamed cold against his exposed skin, indescribably welcome as it tugged at his hair, reminding him that this was real, that Enjolras beside him was real. 

“This is my early Christmas present to you, right?” Grantaire said over the rushing of the wind that was streaming Enjolras’s hair up about his face and neck like a halo, "Couscous doesn't add up to this much."

“I suppose.” Enjolras told him, pinning him down with his direct glance, “And that does mean you won’t be giving me those fleur-de-lys pencils from Versailles like you do every year.” 

“They’re _ironic_ , Enjolras,” He countered, wondering if they really were talking about this now, “Think how much more entertaining any anti-monarchical debates will be if you’re using them.”

Enjolras merely flicked a quick glance skywards at that, looking like a slightly put upon avenging angel with his coat whipping out behind him.

And with Paris mapped out around him, sprawling beneath him, all Grantaire was looking at was the person beside him.

He ran a hand over his face, dragging his curls back, grimacing as his heart still hammered erratically about in his chest. His t-shirt pressed against his cold skin and he looked away from Enjolras and the sun arching down behind him, forcing his eyes to take in Paris far below him to bring some semblance of stability to his mind.

But that was hard three hundred or so feet from the ground.

He could sense Enjolras behind him as he walked aimlessly along the railing, a hand trailing against the cold iron. Sensed it as if he could feel the burning heat he seemed to radiate, even here with the cold winds roaring in his ears.

It suddenly seemed like a wise idea to sink down before the railings, on the side mostly abandoned spare a few tourists, the latticed iron pressing against his knee. The northeast of Paris unfurled before him until it sunk into a misty haze on the horizon, to his left he could glimpse La Defense, driven past on a day when he’d used watercolours with Enjolras next to him.

And he was next to him now, settling beside him on the dusty floor, his red jeans dull in the evening light, looking at him as if to make up for all the times he hadn’t.

“What’s wrong, Grantaire?” He asked, and Grantaire wished he knew how a voice so steady and unfaltering could have him so turbulent.

“It all looks so peaceful from a height.” Grantaire told him, not meeting his eye as he instead knotted his fingers through the gaps in the rail, the smile he was wearing hurting his jaw, “Can you pretend that the world’s fair and that all these buildings are as pretty close up?”

“Grantaire-”

“Isn’t the sky scary? It’s just so _vast_. Look how small everything is below it.” He didn’t stop to see if Enjolras shared this sentiment, ploughing on with random words he summoned from nowhere. “You really realise that you’re living on a lump of rock. I mean, of course we all know that, but when you see the sky without any buildings crowding it you realise just how huge the universe is and how isolated we are. How ridiculously tiny cities like Paris are.” 

Enjolras didn’t say anything to this impromptu speech, and Grantaire didn’t look at him, even if he might as well have, as his mind called up the expression Enjolras was no doubt wearing; his lips pursed, brows lowered. He seemed to be waiting, and Grantaire felt himself surrendering. 

“I don’t understand.” He finally said, throwing a smile onto his face to say those words as if his confusion would hurt less if he confessed it mockingly. He shifted to look at Enjolras at last, to take him in as his fingers traced over his jeans, his gaze measured.

“What?” He asked after a moment.

“This.” Grantaire replied, fingers waving out to him for a brief moment, “Us.”

The word felt foreign on his mouth.

Enjolras was silent for a moment, and his fingers twitched where they’d come to rest on his knee.

“I believe I’ve assumed a lot here,” He eventually said, voice tempered and even, “And I’m sorry for that. This is new to me. I think we both need some clarification.”

“Fuck, Enjolras.” Grantaire said with something resembling a laugh, and he was shaking again, “Are we really talking about our feelings on top of the Eiffel Tower?”

The corners of Enjolras’s lips deepened in a quirk. 

“You must know where I stand.” Grantaire told him quietly, dropping his gaze back to his hands, watching his knuckles block out Notre Dame and seeing how far they’d walked. “Where I’ve always stood.”

“I didn’t.” Enjolras told him, and Grantaire had to take a deep breath at that because it hurt, and he felt the old safety hurtling away from him; barriers tumbling and he’d never felt more exposed. “But I feel I do now. I regret that it took me so long to realize.”

Grantaire’s fingers moved down, so Notre Dame could be glimpsed again, so far away. He could make out the bridges amongst flashes of the Seine that was coloured grey from such a height. The wind howled in his ears, setting him on edge. 

“What changed?” He asked, and not even Enjolras could miss the desperation in his voice now, but he was past caring. Self-preservation was, after all, not his thing.

Enjolras frowned, as if he really were contemplating the question, his own hands stilling their movement, his fair curls still splaying out on the determined breeze. 

“I don’t really know.” He told him, “These last few weeks, I suppose. I found,” He paused, and Grantaire’s heart skidded as he gave a small exhalation of humour, “That you’d got under my skin.”

The short bark of laughter Grantaire gave wasn’t particularly under his control.

“It’s what I do best, it would seem.” He said, pressing his fingers almost painfully against the rail, because how was he _still_ trembling.

Enjolras shifted slightly out the corner of his eye, and suddenly gentle hands were taking Grantaire’s from the iron lattice, gentle, but strong and warm. His grip pressed down on Grantaire’s skin, and he shivered, and for some unexplainable reason, a wash of ease spread over him.

“I would argue easily with you on that.” He said, eyelashes glinting as he raised his gaze to trap Grantaire’s and Grantaire felt himself involuntarily move, a slight tremble as the hardwired part of his mind that still struggled with survival, that still saw Enjolras as some unobtainable, distant figure threw itself forwards.

“Another talent,” He agreed, and perhaps his hands weren’t shaking anymore, his mind working calmer as the wind hurtled around them; lifting their hair and billowing their clothes. Enjolras was focused on him, and there was a steadiness to his look, a calmness in those grey eyes that somehow almost settled what it had earlier displaced. Grantaire clung onto Enjolras’s grip, letting it anchor him, anchor him instead of casting him out on roiling waves. There was a genuineness he hardly dared to believe in Enjolras’s expression, and that fear was back. His heart still felt erratic in his chest, his skin hot despite the cold wind, but Enjolras was here, definitely here, his grip firm and unyielding. And perhaps, he considered, as the part of him that was brave pushed himself forwards to bridge that distance between them and brush his lips against Enjolras’s, perhaps he could learn to be brave, to crush those doubts that rose in him unbidden like some kind of disease. But ‘perhaps’ left a lot wanting. 

Enjolras pressed his forehead against Grantaire’s when they broke apart, his thumb skirting over the skin of Grantaire’s knuckles, fingers rising to press against his t-shirt, and Grantaire could almost sense him smiling.

And he found himself echoing that smile as dusk settled over the city and the sun dipped, out of sight to all but them, standing three hundred feet above Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry I uploaded this then cocked up the html oops it's been a long day  
> I'm back from my travels! Sorry this took longer than expected to update- my brain is sluggish from this British surprise summertime ...thank you so much to you all for the lovely comments I got for the last chapter- they made me all warm and squiggly inside no word of a lie (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧


	11. We would have to shut the windows in the night against the rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Paris is distracting, pirate ships are dropped and Thersites is wished equal.

For perhaps one of the first times in his life, Combeferre had utterly and completely lost track of his Friday morning lecture. Linear regression models were blinking at him from the projector screen, jarring in the florescent light at the front of the lecture theatre that slowly faded to dull shadow where he’d seated himself, perhaps rather unwisely on reflection. The window beside him was offering the occasional tantalizing glimpse of the pale buildings outside when the blind hit back in the breeze, small rushes of sunlight falling across his left arm. 

He was distracted, and wholly unable to bring his mind back to the class he’d only been sitting in for the past twenty minutes. Or twenty-three. Not that he was counting, of course.

The girl beside him had already scrawled a page and a half of notes, and Combeferre felt that should instil some guilt into him, but then the blind lifted up again, and it sent him a glimpse of the cobbled road that tumbled down to a boulevard where the windows were shaded by vivid orange blinds. He could hear the trees whispering, as if to him, over the hum of the projector and the rustling of a room full of people.

The girl next to him went to brush her hair behind her ear, and the movement sent a jarring parallel to what his mind had been focused on in place of statistical methods and mathematics. 

The kiss Eponine had placed on his cheek Wednesday night when she’d left after Enjolras had pursued Grantaire still seemed to burn hot on his skin. There had been a split hesitation before she’d done it, a flicker of something in her dark eyes as she’d hovered before him and Combefere hadn’t quite managed to stop dwelling on it. For some reason it had instilled in him the strong inclination to smile, or spin on his feet, which he may or may not have indulged in when the living room had finally been devoid of people.

He felt his phone go off from where it was stowed away in his pocket, and on instinct he reached for it. He could later admit that hoping to hear from a certain person was his main motive for dragging it out, and sending an apologetic look to the girl beside him who was now sending him a critical glance.

It turned out he had three new messages when he peered at the screen of his phone. The first was from Bahorel, and simply read,

_BOUGHT IT. Thanks for sharing the parking space._

As Combeferre had definitely _not_ agreed to share his parking space with what was sure to be an alarmingly red moped, he almost paused to send a response. But his attention was pulled towards the second of the messages, and the smile was back on his face without his really knowing.

Eponine’s message only consisted of an attached photo of a notebook on a lecture room desk with the sentence _thought you’d approve,_ but he was still looking at the message a few minutes later. He didn’t give much thought as to why his mind absorbed every pixel, taking in the edges of Eponine’s fingers caught in the shot, her nails carelessly painted a peeling black. 

Eponine had been on his mind rather frequently of late, he reflected, as his fingers hovered over the phone, still absorbing the message. While people had always been a basis of enthrallment to him, he’d never really noticed this more than with her. Resilient and mocking Eponine with her tired eyes and quick smiles was a source of fascination to him. Perhaps it came from the same part of him that would learn the wingspans of sparrows and hawks, or would press gentle fingers against petals to remember their shapes and file away their Latin names to some corner of his mind. A soft need to know, because knowing things made him feel strong, and learning was the best thing even a flawed world could offer. Perhaps that’s why Eponine was so constantly on his mind, even now when he was only twenty-seven minutes into a lecture and _still_ not listening.

But he didn’t think it was.

He forced his eyes onto the last message, which was from Enjolras, pressing him for a few opinions for the scheduled walkout next week and asking him to call him when he was free, trying to ignore the way his mind was still on the previous message, his heart leaping in his chest or how his skin suddenly felt quite warm. 

_Econometrics_ , the stricter part of his mind chastised, the part that had been so redundant for the past twenty-eight minutes and it was with a great amount of effort that he dragged his eyes away from his phone, and forced himself to listen to the lecturer.

Despite his ambling thoughts that had been far more focused on certain individuals than the contents of his university degree, he eventually managed to force his attention to the lecture. He only looked at his watch five more times.

The sun over Paris had waited patiently for him, and the air smelt of summer as he finally left the building, stepping out onto the street that was set on a small hill not too far from the Boulevard Saint Michel. He glanced up at the streak of blue sky between the rows of tall buildings as he put his phone to his ear, Enjolras’s number dialled.

“Combeferre,” He said when he’d answered on the fourth ring, and, ever the same, carried on with whatever was on his mind, “I was wondering if you knew how Courfeyrac was getting on with scheduling with other organisations. He’s not getting back to me.”

Combeferre stifled a yawn, and for one of the first times felt that a two hour lecture was really too long, 

“It’s all going smoothly,” He told him, “At the moment other parties all seem to be of the same mind with everything, which makes a nice change.” 

“That’s because we’re all students fighting for student-led educational change.” Enjolras said immediately, tones somewhat waspish. He was always like that when topics such as this were present, and Combeferre knew that, knew Enjolras like the pages of a book, or the patterns of a moth’s wings. 

“You’re getting enough sleep, aren’t you?” He asked Enjolras, and across the phone he could hear the rustle of papers, “I know how you can be.”

Enjolras let out a low, dismissive noise, which might have been rude if Combeferre didn’t know him. 

“I’m fine,” He said shortly, and there was a muted breath in Combeferre’s ear, as if Enjolras had been about to speak and then changed his mind. He seemed somewhat distracted, which was rather unusual for him when they were discussing things so close to his heart, and everything he drove for. “Do you want to come by later?”

Combeferre heard the question, but it was timed with his looking towards the end of the street he was heading down, and he was somewhat distracted by the person he saw there.

Eponine was lolling against the wall of the building at the end of the road, hitting her shoulders against the plaster as she smirked at him, arms folded and the sunlight making her hair glint auburn.

“Um.” He said, his train of thought momentarily lost, “Yes? Let me know when you’re free.”

“Ok.”

They both fell silent, and Combeferre briefly wondered where Enjolras’s distraction was stemming from. Because, he thought guiltily, it was most likely nowhere similar to what was now occupying his mind. Perhaps the papers beneath his hands had claimed his attention.

“I’ll talk to you later, Combeferre.” He finally said, and Combeferre simply mirrored that sentiment before ending the call. Things were always that way with Enjolras; an air of brusqueness to him that had nothing to do with dislike, it was just the way he functioned. But Comebeferre could easily see the fondness that lay between his so often stern expression, and whilst it had taken him a while, he’d never felt more attune to another human being. 

That became apparent when he reached Eponine, stowing his phone away, and he took her in properly. 

She’d appeared flippant when he’d first spotted her, but now lolling before him, he saw the strained nature of her smile, and the way her hands were beating erratically against the wall as if she couldn’t still them.

“Hey,” She said, her teeth baring as she smiled at him, and her skin looked drawn and pale up close, “Did you know our lecture rooms were this close because I hadn’t a clue.”

“Are you ok?” His voice sounded too quiet and pandering to his liking, as if he were tiptoeing about her, and Eponine pulled a face at him,

“I’m _fine_. Family stuff, whatever. But I’ve had a shit morning and I’m tired and now I need to go and sit in the Square René-Viviani and hear you talk crappy intellectual things next to the oldest tree in Paris.”

“Ok.” He said immediately. 

She took a measured breath as she pushed herself forwards from the building she’d been leaning against, and sent him a more steady grin as she tucked her hair behind her  
ear.

“Are you going to offer me your arm, sir?” She asked, her expression cat-like, “Or are you ashamed to be seen with me?”

Combeferre heard himself laugh at that, and the fashion with which he took her arm and laced it around his might have been joking, had his heart not flipped in his chest. And he knew why, not just from twenty-eight minutes of contemplation and slow comprehension, but because his own mind he knew. And he didn’t speak as she began to lead him down the slope, and she gave no indication that she had noticed the way his hand had come up to rest on hers.

Combeferre wasn’t a person to lose track of things, but with Eponine’s shoulder brushing his, and her eventual flow of talk that came through twisted smiles and smirks, he thought that perhaps it was a wonderful thing to feel slightly lost.

* * *

The afternoon sunlight filtering through the trees at the Luxembourg Gardens burst bright over Enjolras’s eyes as he headed up through the crowds towards the expanse of gravel nestled around balustraded terraces and waving trees. It was busy here today, the muggy warmth of summer heating the air and the stacks of chairs that had so long been ignored now in use, seats dragged out to random spots, individuals chasing the shade or the sun.

The warm, fresh air was soothing on Enjolras’s skin after a morning hunched over his laptop in the library, far away from clear, sunlit air. It made a valiant effort to dispel the sluggishness that had settled on him, throwing his thoughts into a new, welcome lucidity. 

And it seemed those thoughts were scattered on two lines of contemplation of late. 

One had been a topic present for so long that it was no surprise to find it weighing on him now, leaving him awake long into the night and greeting him when his eyes opened to morning light. A drive that had plagued him for so long. Not that it was a disease, for it could only be a contribution to a slow-moving cure. 

Irrational as it was, he felt as if he could perhaps feel the Earth spinning beneath his feet; him turning with it as the universe surrounded them; the sun hurling its orbiting Earth forwards. Forwards was the word Enjolras clung to. A world reeling forwards, a changing world where the centre stage was shifting because of the people who would not allow it to stay the same.

But sometimes the world felt as if it might simply collapse instead, crush those who fought for so much. Those moments felt as if they would crush him too, when it all felt like too much; far too much and for all the determination of so many he still brushed shoulders with countless people who would never care.

He’d dwelt on that as he’d stood on the second floor of the Eiffel Tower with Grantaire, as he’d looked out at the sprawling city that looked so distant and calm. Even if tuberculosis hollowed lungs just miles away in the suburbs and in every direction, distance inconsequential, governments broke their promises and people were dying for their beliefs. 

It was a nauseating kind of frustration that lit within him at those thoughts, thoughts that made him furious, that drove him relentlessly. It were as if those ideas were glaring colours, and he couldn’t ignore them as they stained the world, and he failed to see how anyone could.

But in amongst all those glaring colours different shades seemed to have ebbed, like those watercolours used on a rainy day in a sparsely leaved tree. And this contemplation, this person, had perhaps been nestled for a long while amongst all the things that claimed his mind; however unnoticed to the strands of Enjolras’s consciousness. 

It was not solely in his heart, his whole self seemed to have developed an indescribable _need_ for Grantaire he hadn’t really noticed before, a realization that had crept up on him and culminated on that street lit bridge. He stood out; liquid dark-haired and loud as he was, brash and cynical and Enjolras wished he knew how he could think he could dislike someone and at the same time feel so lost without them. He’d found himself thinking of him, at every art shop, with every smoking figure, every _tree_ and for one of the first times in his life he had utterly no clue what to do with himself. 

He’d seen Grantaire’s expressions before, seen the way his eyes lit in brief moments when sarcasm hadn’t been his mask; he’d seen the way he’d looked at him. But he hadn’t really seen it, it was something that had gone relatively un-contemplated and unaddressed, but now he felt he could slot into a world where Grantaire’s hand would meet his, where his lips pressed against his and where he was free to learn every contour of him, know everything about the person that had flowed so constantly in his mind for so long without his ever being fully aware of extent of its strength and presence. No, he didn’t feel he _could_ slot into that, he felt he _needed_ to.

It all felt natural to his heart, to every part of him, but a light of caution remained when he thought of Grantaire. Grantaire, who was resilient and mocking and sarcastic, but Enjolras had seen his wide-eyed restlessness, and the way his hands had shook and he felt a little uneasy as his mind had tried to decipher what Grantaire wanted, at the same time tangled with a strange sense of self-consciousness that with all Grantaire’s jokes about deities, he would see how Enjolras was purely nothing but mortal.

He spotted Feuilly first amongst the group of people gathered on the gravel that surrounded the large basin of water were model boats were sailing. The sunlight glinted off his hair as he leant back against his seat, smoking. Courfeyrac was resting his feet on Joly’s chair, playing with what had to be one of his ten pairs of sunglasses and frantically texting at the same time. 

Enjolras wished he could place the odd swoop of queasiness in his chest when he saw Grantaire was with them, sinking low in one of the chairs, slender fingers drawn against his lips as he held a cigarette there. He saw Enjolras a second or so after and a smile quirked itself hesitantly at the corner of his lips, as if he were still uncertain.

“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac announced when he drew level with them, “I didn’t expect to see you until the library ran out of electricity!”

“How’s next week coming along?” Enjolras asked him, ignoring the comment as he dragged a free chair towards the rough circle they’d created and settling next to Grantaire. They both froze as their arms brushed.

“I’ll tell you all about it in a second.” Courfeyrac told him with an easy smile, “I’ll just finish this text to Jehan.”

“As rude as you are about Marius, he is nowhere near as bad as you.” Feuilly told him, his knee drawn up as he rested a hand lazily clutching his cigarette on it, and Courfeyrac made a squawk of protest, but didn’t lift his eyes from the phone. 

“Liking makes everything insufferable.” Grantaire told them, and as he leant forwards the scent of whatever he had been drinking caught on Enjolras’s senses, “A person, scenery. Even you to yourself.”

“You are far too ruminative today, R.” Joly told him, looking at him curiously, something like worry on his normally smiling face. Grantaire gave him a lopsided grin, odd curls of hair lifting with a breeze tumbling across the expanse of gravel.

“Alcohol will do that to you.” He said with a grunt of amusement Enjolras took to be false, and he couldn’t pull his eyes from him. If Grantaire felt his gaze, he ignored it. 

Courfeyrac finished whatever he had been sending Jehan and drew Enjolras into talking of the walkout a moment later, calling forwards the other cause of Enjorlas’s restlessness that saw him immersed and distracted from any other thought. Or as close as that was possible, with Grantaire barely ten centimetres away, his cigarette smoke clinging to the air and the occasional rush of breathing re-announcing his presence, as if Enjolras could have forgotten. Grantaire’s bitter sarcasm had weighed on his mind, not to be cancelled out by talks on education funds that stirred that livid frustration within him, and Grantaire had somehow always done that to him. His mocking and sceptical nature always seemed to be propped beside him, something he dwelt on even when he’d been adamant he hadn’t. But it wasn’t just Grantaire’s nature that seemed to cling to Enjolras’s mind now. It was _him_. 

Feuilly slowly got to his feet as Courfeyrac and Enjolras fell deeper into discussion, stretching his arms high above his head,

“I’m off to work.” He yawned, scuffing his hair up with a free hand, “Someone’s gotta give the tourists their onion soup.”

“Say hello to Musichetta for Bossuet and me.” Joly said a little meekly, his cheeks turning pink, “Can you sneakily find out if she liked the flowers?”

“No.” Feuilly told him, which they’d learnt long ago meant the exact opposite, and he gave them a mock salute of farewell before working out of the small circle they’d created.

“Well, I’m going to rent a toy boat.” Courfeyrac announced, pushing his sunglasses back on his head so his unruly hair stuck upwards somewhat absurdly, “That kid was butchering his pirate ship just a moment ago, and I need to show him how it’s done.”

“Er, I think I’ll come with you.” Joly said quickly, scrambling up, “So you’ll look less weird.”

Enjolras might have watched them go with something bordering on tired amusement, but his mind was suddenly tangled with the fact that they’d left Grantaire and him alone.

Grantaire was silent a while as Courfeyrac pranced away with Joly hurrying after him; the laughter and screams of the children playing with the boats drifting to them on a soft breeze, the sun glinting down upon their heads. 

“So you’re going to be saving the education system next week then?” He finally asked Enjolras, turning a slow smile on him that did nothing to hide the shadows lining his eyes and Enjolras wanted to ask him when was the last time he had slept.

“I don’t know how you want me to respond to that.” He said, feeling a little nettled, not that he had been expecting anything but the derisive tone in Grantaire’s voice, however desultory it seemed. 

“Mmm.” Grantaire mused noncommittally; quiet as he exhaled his now finished cigarette smoke, crushing the stub to the ground, an arm leant over the back of his seat. “I suppose a yes?”

“You seem to have a fair bit of disbelief.” Enjolras shot at him, unable to look away, shifting his chair closer as he frowned at him, that familiar heat washing over him at Grantaire’s mocking tone, a heat that made him flushed and, god, perhaps he _enjoyed this_. “As usual.”

“Well, I’ve recently discovered I like to be proven wrong.” Grantaire fired him a grin that bared uneven teeth, which vanished quickly as he saw Enjolras’s new proximity. When he spoke again he directed his words to the sleeve of Enjolras’s coat, eyelashes flickering dark against his cheekbones, “I suppose I just think I’m too well acquainted with the world to bother hoping. We build and then destroy,” He flourished a careless hand, fingertips outstretched, “‘What a spectacle! Thus dies everything that man creates!’”

A part of Enjolras still took his words as a challenge, a flash of scorn and irritation and a longing to prove Grantaire wrong seizing him, but he didn’t voice it as he watched Grantaire’s slender fingers suddenly reach for the sleeve of his coat, hesitantly brushing the fabric and lighting on his skin.

“The world sends you mad if you think on it for too long.” Grantaire continued in a lower voice, eyes focused on where their skin now met, Enjolras’s hand still as Grantaire traced feather light patterns along it, “You have to step back or it swallows you up.” He paused a moment and his lips twitched, “So I’m told. But I’ve found I can tolerate the world for its occasional rays of light.” His eyes flicked upwards, rambling meandering attention now irrefutably fixed on him. And that look was revering, and Enjolras wished it wasn’t; wished those sleepy, hazy and yet somehow bright eyes would see him as an equal and instead hold a reverence and a belief for the ideas that coloured Enjolras’s mind. 

“I was sure you despised me.” Grantaire continued quietly, and the way his eyes flickered made Enjolras feel that if he were to press his fingers to his wrist, he would find his pulse hurtling, a storm beneath a tranquil surface. “I’m still not entirely convinced you don’t.”

“Stop it.” Enjolras felt himself snapping, tugging his hand away and grabbing hold of the back of Grantaire’s neck; fingers winding in his hair as he pulled him closer and Grantaire’s eyes lost their lidded appearance, widening in surprise. “I’ve never hated you, Grantaire.” 

Grantaire jerked his own head back at that to take in his expression, and his blue eyes seemed grey this close to his own. His face was unsmiling, eyes wide, and he looked at Enjolras as if he were some bright light after a long spell in darkness. A light that he couldn’t help be cautious of, and Enjolras found him adding that to his list of things he so fervently wanted to change, perhaps one of the only things he couldn’t, or where once again that maddening ally time would have to be with him. 

Grantaire let out a small sigh, as if he were too tired to fire a witticism at him, fixing Enjolras with a gaze that held the tenderness Enjolras had sometimes thought he’d seen in the past, seen but never really _noted_ , as if Grantaire had been some blind spot for him, .

“Not even a little bit?” He finally said with a small grin, lips twisting upwards unevenly, and there was the air of uncertainty to him again, “That’s a grandiose statement,” 

“Do you think I’m capricious?” Enjolras heard himself saying, tone waspish and quick and Grantaire seemed both amused by his outburst and somewhat stunned at the question.

“No.” He finally said, his voice muted as he appraised him, squinting slightly as the sun flared out from behind a cloud. “No I don’t.”

“You believe I mean the things I say?”

“Mm.” Grantaire hummed in affirmation, eyes flickering to look at Enjolras’s lips which he had left pursed as he frowned at Grantaire, mind racing and trying to overcome the sensations in his stomach that came from their proximity. “I believe a lot of things when it comes to you, it would seem. I suppose I’m a stickler for lost causes. But yes, _Enjolras,_ ” And his lips quirked as he spoke his name, and he voiced the next words as if they were almost secret, as if he were only telling him half of something, “I seem to be able to attach a mystifying amount of belief to you.”

That took Enjolras aback, leaving him momentarily wordless as he sat there on that rickety chair, the cries and chatter of so many people all around them lost to him as his hand still weighed against Grantaire’s neck, wondering if this was something close to flying; to hear a person who happily flung forth gloomy prophecies and was so quick to reject now profess belief in him. In the fact that he was here with Grantaire, and _god_ , here for as long as the world allowed. And probably a little beyond that if the stubbornness so constantly attributed to him could play its part.

He’d thought Grantaire a storm and perhaps he was for all that he stirred up inside his chest, and he wished he could express that but couldn’t bear to have the words sound forced or false on his lips. And he, who had never really felt fear at anything, had detected the rising of a crippling alarm back when they’d sat on the floor of the Eiffel Tower, so high above the ground, a fear that Grantaire could never look at him with tranquillity, would never see him as a safe house but always as a burning, reeling tempest, something he felt would cast him away at any moment. 

“Well then.” He murmured now, eyes pinned onto Grantaire’s expression, and he was rewarded with a small smirk. It might have hid any number of reservations that seemed to swathe him like shadows, but his hand was reaching forwards for Enjolras’s again, and Enjolras looked down at his movements to glimpse the acrylic paint flecked across his skin, under his nails as Grantaire took his hand hesitantly, always hesitantly. And Enjolras’s hand was still tangled at the back of Grantaire’s neck, and the smell of cigarettes and faint beer and the ashy scent of _Grantaire_ had overrode the fresh odour that the Luxembourg Gardens was strung with, and the familiarity now made his heart lurch. 

“I suppose Combeferre would call that a logical conclusion.” Grantaire now ruminated in a soft tone, and perhaps there was a slackening to his shoulders as he sat there, a light dancing in his eyes that was sharp, a look that Enjolras’s mind had always somehow retained and remembered, before so furious with that image, but now thoroughly absorbed by it.

Grantaire was really very close, his fingers gentle and calloused and warm and Enjolras couldn’t help the huff of impatience he emitted, the gravel below them crunching under his feet as he leant forwards and kissed him.

He’d been learning the scent of Grantaire’s skin, the way he tasted, learning the small noises he made when Enjolras pressed him closer. And the sentiment of addiction he had always reserved for the avid need and desire for change and transformation, but as Grantaire’s grip on him tightened he thought he was perhaps developing a continuous need for this too. Thought that perhaps he had already, from the moment they’d both sat on that stone bridge still wet with rain. 

They slowly moved away, and Enjolras pulled his fingers from Grantaire’s, raising one to carefully trace the side of his face, from eyebrow to jaw, learning the way those thin bones made up a face he couldn’t imagine not knowing and Grantaire made a low noise, not of protest but disquiet, a flicker of something passing across his face that Enjolras couldn’t read, and he leant forwards to crush his lips against his again before Enjolras could question it.

And whilst the world did seem to grow too heavy far too often, with far too much in it; a constant weight that seemed to remain no matter how much its occupants tried to shift it, a weight that would seem to crush him, here Enjolras felt light, as if any burdens had been temporarily lifted. With Grantaire’s lips on his, soft and tanging with spent nicotine, his racing mind fell calm, some intoxicating pull to Grantaire that was almost ironic with all the times he had slipped with harsh words at him over his own toxic vices. But this couldn’t be a vice, nowhere _near_. 

Neither of them saw Courfeyrac glance over at them as he scooped his rented toy boat up to better position it, ignoring Joly’s suggestion that really he should give someone else a turn. And if Enjolras heard a loud screech and a violent splash as the boat was dropped unseeingly into the basin, he merely attributed it to a ten year old, and not the university student in his twenties who had, in fact, just made a fair bit of money accounting on a said two people getting together before two thousand and fourteen arrived.

* * *

The sun over Paris hid itself by the late afternoon, black clouds spilling across the sky like ink on water, and by the time rush hour claimed the city streets, the boulevards flooded with people and litter spilling in a rising wind, the rain had started again. Joly had told them of a forecast storm, and it now seemed that Grantaire should place faith in one more thing, in the guise of the weather forecast, as he ambled down a dark side alley, the clock on his phone blinking three in the morning when he brought it out to check, rain drops hurtling down on it, his hands dripping and cold.

His shoulder hit the plastered wall of the house to his right and he cursed under his breath, running a hand through the soaked tangles of his hair, and feeling his vision blur a little. The blurring could definitely be attributed not to the rain, but for the quantity of alcohol he had just consumed with Bahorel, Feuilly, Joly and Bossuet at the Corinth bar, a small place they’d started to haunt back when the food had been halfway decent and simply remained for the drinks.

His left elbow was still bleeding, and in hindsight hanging off the back of Bahorel’s moving moped perhaps hadn’t been the best idea, but as the rain picked up on a howling wind and a roll of thunder pitched high above the buildings towering around him, he wasn’t sure he could feel the pain.

Everything had seemed muted and heighted at the same time of late. Musings had sprung to him in higher frequency, lurching thoughts that would keep him restless and awake, not that he ever seemed to sleep anymore anyway.

Thoughts and reflections had been clinging to his mind and as he stumbled forwards now, the dark of the night sky arching above him he idly wondered what it was like to die, to be veiled in blackness surely not unlike this, and he was awed by the finality to it, and wondered if perhaps he was half dead now, had somehow slipped unnoticed into heaven

But it had hurt when he’d stumbled and fallen onto the pavement earlier, so he supposed this must be real, some twisted reality where the sun deigned to shine on him even if there was a storm above him now.

There was a brief flash of lightning, followed rapidly by a clap of thunder that seemed to shake the old buildings about him; haphazard satellite dishes illuminated like clasping hands, reaching out to him. He shut his eyes as he felt his shirt grow heavier from the rain, pressing against him and perhaps the numbing cold was more noticeable now than when he’d left Bahorel and the others on that well lit, busy street.

He knew where he was at least, he knew _exactly_ where he was, as if some subconscious part of him had walked himself here, a subconscious part that was powered by gravitational pull, and who was he to defy such laws of physics. Paris only had one sun at this hour. 

He stumbled out onto the street where Enjolras lived as the rain hardened, pounding off the pavements and seeping wet across his ruined shoes. The last time he’d walked here he’d been drunk too, he now mused, had collapsed against Enjolras’s door, too scared to push himself into that private part of his world.

There was a tentative part of him that was wondering if Enjolras was still awake, wondering if the thunder above Paris had woken him, or if those drives of his had stopped his brain from resting anyway, drives he wished he could share in.

A fresh roll of thunder made its way far above Grantaire’s head and to his reeling mind this rainstorm seemed biblical, a tempest crashing above him, a lone figure in an empty street filled with rushing water. And as he tilted back his head to catch the rain along his skin, he realized that perhaps he was freezing.

He was still a fifteen minute or so walk from his apartment, an apartment that would be no warmer than the streets and he knew he was shivering now. And Enjolras felt warm to even think about, as if he were pulling the sun from amongst these pitch-black clouds by force of thought. And the emboldened part of his mind no longer felt cautioned, a rush of the same sentiment that saw him in bar fights, which saw him deliberately riling that figure he now thought of as sunlight, now flooding over him as determinedly as the rain.

He’d pulled out his phone again without really comprehending it, and ignored the way his fingers shook, leaving wet prints all over the screen as he sent what was likely a very poorly spelled message to Enjolras.

_What light through yonder window breaks oh envied sun?_

He waited a moment before deciding to elaborate on the situation.

_It’s really quite soggy out here._

He’d staggered forwards only a few metres to shelter himself under the entrance to Enjolras’s tenement block when his phone buzzed.

_I’m guessing by that you mean you’re outside._

Grantaire pressed his fingers against the iron bars of the door as the wind picked up, whipping cold against his body, the wet fabric of his shirt stinging. And his phone went off again.

_I’ve buzzed you in._

The door clicked on cue, and Grantaire threw his weight against it, stumbling into the building, the squeak of wet shoes accompanying him. He wasn’t sure he could attribute the slightly nauseous feeling in his stomach to drunkenness anymore, and he wondered what the hell he was doing, pushing himself upon Enjolras when his head was spinning.

Not that his mind had seemed to have stopped spinning since he’d thrown away the years of caution and pressed his lips to his. An uncountable number of guarded looks and hidden words thrown away and he couldn’t believe he’d won, because he _didn’t_ win.

And he hesitated when he finally found his way to Enjolras’s front door, fingers raised and knuckles skimming against the painted surface and wondering if he should simply leave. The water from his shirt was seeping down his skin; jeans stuck to his legs. But that bolstered part of him pushed him forwards once again, all sense of self-preservation seeming to ebb in a small moment. 

Enjolras opened the door on the first knock. The erratic, tentative moonlight that was falling through his undrawn curtains seemed to follow him as he stood there, swathing the shoulders of his white t-shirt and lighting the strands of his fair hair. And Grantaire stared at him, dripping and bruised and drunk and had never felt more contrasted, more ungraceful.

“Hi.” He heard himself say, curls dripping rivulets along his face as he stared at Enjolras, Enjolras who was in boxers and seemed like some moonlit deity that belonged to this secret hour so late into the night. 

“Grantaire.” Enjolras replied, voice soft, even if his face betrayed nothing. His fingers flickered slightly on the doorframe. “Are you ok?” His eyes flashed down to take in his wet clothes, and lit on one of the bruises Grantaire had managed to accumulate on his elbow.

“You’ve cut yourself,” He noted, reaching for his arm, strong fingers tugging him forwards,

“I was drunk.” Grantaire sighed. Enjolras’s fingers felt feverishly hot against his wet skin, “ _Am_ drunk, whatever.” 

Enjolras kept looking at the graze on his arm, and after a moment gently released him, eyes flicking up to meet Grantaire’s,

“Right.” He said, his tone a little harsh and Grantaire’s heart flipped slightly at it, wilting and revelling at the same time. “Do you want to come in?”

“Uh.” He wanted to, he wanted to _badly_ , but Enjolras’s gaze seemed hostile, his face expressionless as he looked at him, dripping and drunk and unwelcome, hanging off Enjolras’s door.

“No, I’ll leave.” He muttered, hastily flashing Enjolras a quick smile, “Sorry for disturbing.”

He made to turn round but Enjolras’s hand whipped forwards and seized his arm, the one that wasn’t bleeding. His tight grip was probably a little fiercer than it needed to be.

“Grantaire, stay,” He snapped, before taking a slow breath and saying in a more measured tone, “I’d like you to stay.”

“Yeah?” Grantaire heard himself say, grinning at him and he felt ridiculous at how much his heart had dived upwards. Enjolras’s cheeks flushed slightly at his suggestive tone.

“Yes.” He confirmed, releasing his arm and stepping backwards, leaving Grantaire room to enter, “And you look like you need a towel.” 

Enjolras might have moved back, but when Grantaire found himself cautiously crossing the threshold, he brushed against him, his arm meeting Enjolras’s slender chest and he must have imagined the small intake of breath Enjolras made and thank god he was drunk because he could pass off the resulting stumbling his legs gave. 

That earlier, nagging part of Grantaire’s mind had been proven right as he took in Enjolras’s apartment and saw that he’d been nowhere near asleep.

There was the sofa, that sofa he’d lain on in a time that seemed so oddly long ago, and before it was the coffee table, cluttered beyond physical probability. It was strewn with books and notes and a laptop with its screen tilted far back, a small desk light filling the apartment as the single source of light. The whole room was draped with the grey-blue hue of night; rain hammering mutedly at the window and Grantaire realized it felt like a haven, and didn’t know what to do with that insight.

“You know,” He said, absently pulling at the neck of his shirt which had stretched with the rain as he took in the paper scattering the table, “Some people sleep at night.”

“I don’t seem to know any of them.” Enjolras responded, shutting the door gently, a stray hand tucking his curls behind his ear. He paused a moment before continuing. “I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

“Nor have I.” Grantaire told him, and his voice fell quiet with the confession. Enjolras stepped closer, his expression unreadable as he contemplated that.

“I’ll get you at towel.” He finally said, and as he moved past him his hand drifted up to whisper along Grantaire’s bare arm, as if he’d done it unconsciously and Grantaire suddenly felt sick and exhausted.

He was still standing adrift in the room when Enjolras returned, dripping onto the carpet, appraising the small bubble Enjolras had constructed for himself, drinking in the sight of empty coffee mugs and no evidence food had been consumed for the past few hours. The wind was howling again outside. 

“You can sit down, Grantaire.” Enjolras told him as he approached, a white towel draped over one arm, and the look in his eyes seemed soft and Grantaire thought perhaps he was still out in the rain, drowning.

“Mm.” He acknowledged in a hoarse tone, remaining where he was, Enjolras a metre away.

“It’s a certain kind of asininity to go out drinking in a thunderstorm, isn’t it?” Enjolras inquired lightly, shrouding the towel about Grantaire’s shoulders, grip firm as he pulled him closer, almost absently running his hands over the fabric, friction beginning to ebb warmness into Grantaire’s skin.

“The best kind.” Grantaire agreed weakly and then he froze as Enjolras dragged him closer, and he was warm; some kind of heat radiating him that Grantaire’s clammy, wet skin seemed to sense.

Enjolras was watching him closely, his full lips pressed into an unreadable line, flicks of hair curling towards his cheeks, brushing his skin and Grantaire idly wished acrylic could halfway capture a beauty that was so fierce and utterly debilitating. 

Then Enjolras stepped towards him, and slowly his fingers began to trace back the wet curls plastered to Grantaire’s brow, and Grantaire wished he wouldn’t look at him like that, like the features of his face were anything to marvel at, to study so closely. There was another flash of muted lightning, light flooding the apartment, electricity illuminating Enjolras’s skin, as if the sky was trying to touch him, the light missing him, and Grantaire didn’t think he could overuse this metaphor however much he tried.

“Oh _god._ ” He muttered, head darting down, feeling his hair brush against Enjolras’s chin, “ _Fuck._ ” 

“What’s wrong?” Enjolras asked immediately, that tone in his voice, that tone that said he wanted to fix whatever had Grantaire wanting to sink to the ground, because Enjolras wanted to fix things, and maybe he wanted to fix him and that thought made Grantaire feel sick. 

“You’re an angel.” He told him, eyes flickering up to his, feeling his face heat feverishly and _god_ he must be drunk to be saying these words now, guarded words and ramblings he’d put in paint but never to the air, “No, there’s an ugliness to them and so many fell, so you’re not an angel, and I suppose you’re not Apollo either, but there must be some divinity to you, Enjolras, I’m sure of it.”

Enjolras watched him as he spoke, one hand still pressing down on his shoulder, and Grantaire felt he was still shivering, but he couldn’t say why any longer. 

“And me,” He said with a bitter smile, gesturing faintly at himself, “I’m Thersites, the foulest commoner who went to Ilios, hated by Achilles, hated by Odysseus.”

Enjolras was frowning at him now, and it wasn’t anger Grantaire saw when he braved to look at him properly. He looked sad and Grantaire didn’t know if he hated that more, or if he hated himself for seeping that look onto that proud, stern face.

“Please don’t see yourself like that, Grantaire.” Enjolras’s voice was quiet, and there was a pleading tone to it and Grantaire might have gained some dry humour from the situation that he’d reduced Enjolras to begging, but there was no triumph to it at all. He gave a small laugh and wondered how it could be more humourless. 

“Gods always ask the impossible of mortals.” He said.

Enjolras was still studying him, his face laced with what had to be concern, something like pain in his expression, and a moment later he let out a small sigh, and before Grantaire could speak again, Enjolras closed the small space between them, wrapping his arms tight about him, one hand resting between his shoulder blades, the other twisting gently in his rain-soaked hair.

Grantaire had only passed out a few times in his life, and he really hoped now wasn’t going to add to that total, as his lips rested on the curve of Enjolras’s throat, his fingers raised, trapped against his chest, seeping in the warmth of his skin. 

When his heart had calmed somewhat, he drank it in. Drank in Enjolras as he clouded every sense he had. The way he smelt, of fresh clothing and shampoo and _Enjolras_ , the warmth of his skin and the softness of his shirt. The pressure of his arms, holding him there. He drank that in as if it were contents of a glass. 

Enjolras’s hand worked its way round and clasped his, pulling his fingers forwards to rest, gentle on the skin just above his collarbones. 

“You feel that?” He murmured, his voice singing in his chest. “Blood. Do you feel how fast my heart is beating with you here?” Grantaire swallowed, his fingers pressed against the hollow above those curving bones, feeling his pulse there, true to his word, blood rushing fast beneath smooth skin. “Not ichor.” He paused a moment, “I realize I can seem distant sometimes, and the last thing I want is to place myself apart from anyone. Grantaire, please see me as nothing but utterly human.”

His words were soft in the silent apartment, silent but for the pounding of rain on the windows, and Grantaire listened to those words as he felt the reverberations of Enjolras’s voice in his chest, as if he could feel those words lifting from his heart, as his wet hair dripped onto his back. The thunder had stopped. 

There were so many things in this world he wished he could believe in, if just for the blissful ignorance that not all was hopeless. He watched Enjolras, and Courfeyrac and Combeferre, he saw them dream and he saw them hope and wished he could enfold himself in those ideas. 

And here was Enjolras now, disagreeing with his views, as they disagreed on everything and he wished he could place himself next to Enjolras, make himself the equal that Enjolras so fiercely believed they all were. 

He’d pinned a lot of wishes on the world, and had seen himself disappointed in all. And now he was here, on some cliff edge with everything to lose and everything to gain. He was faced with a jump, so high he felt he could shatter every bone in his body. Hell, every organ. And he was afraid, _so_ afraid. 

But there was something about Enjolras’s grip, his fingers warm and firm, that managed to calm his heart.

He eventually pulled away, working a hand over his face, the towel around his shoulder slightly damp from being in contact with his wet clothes, and Enjolras looked down at him, his hand still clasped around his.

“I’ve made your shirt wet.” Grantaire mumbled, fingers tracing the damp lines he’d left and Enjolras’s expression shifted to something fierce, as if disbelieving that of all things Grantaire was really pointing that out.

“You can borrow a t-shirt.” He told him, and before Grantaire could sort his mind Enjolras was leading him across the room, and his heart jolted sickeningly when he realized Enjolras was moving him towards his bedroom. “And I feel you should get some sleep.”

Grantaire let out a bark of amusement at that, because sleep was not something any part of his body ever seemed willing to do.

“No, it’s okay.” He heard himself gabbling as Enjolras pulled him gently forwards, “The rain’s probably stopping, it’s only a short walk home, five minutes or something, really-”

He broke off as he entered Enjolras’s room and the light was flicked on, and he was unable to continue as he was pulled into a place he really had spent far too long trying to picture in his mind. His hands were no longer cold, they were clammy. 

He supposed there was nothing particularly _special_ about the room itself. It was sparsely furnished, but cluttered; books stacked carelessly on a chair, a small table, the floor. But there were things he noticed, honed in on as if trying to remember every small detail, things that seemed to quintessentially Enjolras he wondered how he hadn’t envisioned them before.

Prints of old paintings hung at random spots, afterthoughts for decoration on bare white walls. His bedside table had books on it too, and an empty mug, and in an open drawer he could glimpse a pile of charity wristbands. And he had to snort, because there really was a map of the world on his wall.

And there was Enjolras, looking at him questioningly, in a small space bordered by six small walls that up till now had most likely only ever been intruded by a visiting Combeferre or Courfeyrac. 

“Er,” Enjolras began, and Grantaire saw he was frowning slightly, a blush spreading across his cheeks and he didn’t think his heart could hammer faster, but it managed it. “Would you like a shower or…?” 

“No, er, it’s okay.”

Enjolras’s eyes darted towards his bed, which Grantaire had barely trusted himself to look at, and Grantaire broke in before he could voice the question,

“I’ll sleep on the sofa, it’s okay.” And he wondered why he kept saying that things were okay, because they really weren’t, not when he felt his heart might burst through his chest, and he was shaking not from cold at all.

At that, however, Enjolras turned on him, and _god_ he was still blushing, but there was a hint of steel to his gaze.

“You’re only sleeping on the sofa if you discover you’re allergic to my laundry detergent, Grantaire.” He said firmly and Grantaire finally decided that, yes, he must be at least partially in some twisted form of heaven.

“Okay.” He tried to say, tried to pull that protecting smirk back onto his face, but the word stuck on his throat, and his lips didn’t even twitch.

He closed his eyes a moment as Enjolras turned haltingly round, reaching towards the dresser pressed in the corner of the room, trying to pull some of that self-preservation back, but it seemed to have shattered, and now here he stood, in Enjolras’s room, nothing stopping him from the look he gave Enjolras when he at last prised his eyes open.

“Here.” Enjolras told him gently, coming across the room to press a soft t-shirt into his hands, moving as if he’d done it just to come into contact with Grantaire’s hands, and he shivered at the thought. He paused, eyes flicking to Grantaire’s sodden jeans, and blood blossomed high on his cheeks, despite the scowl of contemplation, “You are going to soak my bed if you keep those on, too.”

He looked back to Grantaire as if waiting for a protest, only to find him standing there gaping at him, and he suddenly looked momentarily thrown.

“I’m going clean my teeth, and close the laptop.” He finally murmured, a hand running absently through the curls twining about his left ear, “Do you want anything to drink?”

“I-no, thanks.”

Enjolras gave a curt nod before heading out the bedroom, leaving Grantaire there, swathed in the scent of Enjolras’s clothes, Enjolras himself. Against the window, where again the curtains lay open, the rain ran, droplets racing one another to the bottom of the pane.

“Shit.” He muttered.

He was just hauling the t-shirt over his head, his jeans a tangled pile on the floor, when Enjolras came back in. He coloured slightly as he studied him, and for some reason that propelled a brief moment of humour from Grantaire.

“I’m sure you’ve seen me in underwear before.” He grinned, perching himself awkwardly on the edge of the bed, “That time you were stunned by my liking of nineteenth century Russian literature?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Enjolras’s mouth, counteracting the way his brows had furrowed.

“I remember.” He admitted, and sighed slightly as he watched Grantaire, who was suddenly rather conscious of what he was doing with his limbs.

“So, you coming to sleep by my side, like a god coming to a mortal?” He grinned, and the smile was strained, his heart hammering in his chest so violently he was sure Enjolras would be able to see it. 

Enjolras let out a sigh of annoyance at his phrasing, and after a brief moment he crossed to the light switch and hit a knuckle against it. Outside, the streetlamps washed anew into the room; lighting the pale walls that flickered as the rain fell.

It was funny how things came in circles, Grantaire thought, as he waited for Enjolras to choose a side of the bed before stumbling to the free pillow, intoxicated by the scent, as if he were drunk again. The last time Enjolras had slept in his bed he’d lain awake, clothed, protected by a jacket, Enjolras in a coat. Their hands had met by accident and they’d both lain rigid and awkward, his mind whirring until sunlight swept across Paris.

But here, Enjolras’s hand carefully found his arm, the bed dipping as he shifted closer, his breathing all Grantaire could hear, all he wanted to hear. He titled his head back, hair still damp, baring his neck as Enjolras came to a rest behind him, his breath warm on Grantaire’s cold skin. He curled back into the embrace, as the hand on his arm snaked round to lie against his chest, holding him, and Grantaire had felt a lot of things in bed with people, but warm safety had never been one of them.

A surge of bravery rolled over him, and he pressed his head back further, grazing Enjolras’s lips against his cheek, and Enjolras didn’t recoil, just leant further forwards, a rustle of sheets accompanying the kiss he laid upon the corner of Grantaire’s mouth.

“Sleep well, Grantaire,” He murmured, mint tanging on his breath, his hair gleaming from the light outside as he rested over him, the touch of him warm and firm.

“’Night.” Grantaire heard himself breathe, eyes unable to move away until Enjolras did, still holding him as he sank back onto a pillow, a small sigh passing through his lips.

For a while, Grantaire lay there, shoulders braced, waiting for something that didn’t happen. Enjolras’s breathing was slow and steady by his ear, soothing him without him being aware of it. The rain still dribbled down the pane, and in a few hours the sun would begin to lighten the sky through those dark clouds. Enjolras’s fingers twitched slightly, re-reminding him of that gentle contact, as if Grantaire could forget. He pressed himself further against Enjolras, and he was there, there with him, and if he dared to shift, to look round he’d see his face, settled in its customary stern lines, a face Grantaire had found so often woven in his thoughts. 

Some things cannot be processed, he thought, as his hand drifted cautiously down to where Enjolras’s was holding him, lighting over his knuckles, ghosting across his long fingers. Some things belonged to those asleep, those dreaming, or to some sect of the dead. But Grantaire was none of those things, and he listened to the rain falling and Enjolras breathing, feeling his own heart slow its pace, scared of the utter, disbelieving contentment that was wriggling its way into every part of him.

And he fell asleep. Not the sleep dogged with the haunted visions that had so constantly plagued his mind, but the full, deep sleep of a man who has at last lain down in the warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~will the world break cos I made Grantaire quote the v-dog himself probably.~~  
>  Anyway, thanks a bunch for all the lovely comments I'm getting about this story!! You all are so wonderful to write for- sorry this chapter took a little longer to upload I struggled a bit bleurgh  
> Also everyone go check out [ roza's](http://ladgerda.tumblr.com/) art omg it's amazing she did [ this ](http://ladgerda.tumblr.com/post/57099004209/read-but-paris-was-a-very-old-city-and-we-were) for chapter nine unnfff


	12. We can walk anywhere and we can stop at some new café

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein bacon sandwiches might be more trouble than they're worth, and the skyline can be rather changeable.

The alarm went off at seven thirty. 

Grantaire supposed Enjolras set it to clamber out of bed and achieve some righteous objectives before the morning was gone. But this time, Enjolras’s fist came slamming down on the clock, and it shut off with a stutter. 

Grantaire had been awake, consciousness flooding with the sunlight that seeped watery and pale through the undrawn curtains, water drops still clinging to the pane from the storm-swept night. The streets outside would be wet, litter sodden with awnings dripping. He doubted anyone but joggers would be in the Luxembourg Gardens today.

He’d woken tangled in sheets that smelt of Enjolras, _his_ t-shirt gathered up about his chest as the morning brightness of the city lit his skin. His hair was tangled knots and a headache was striking the back of his head, but he forgot all that as he twisted as carefully as possible, face half hidden in the pillow, to take in the determinedly sleeping figure beside him.

Enjolras had shifted in the course of the night, twisting as he’d slept and Grantaire looked at him now through groggy, hung-over eyes, and thought every art gallery in Paris was a mockery, empty as they were of the image that he saw now. 

Enjolras’s lips tugged down as he slept, his face as serious in sleep as when he was awake, but there was a sprawling nature to his slender limbs that Grantaire felt he couldn’t look away from, a laziness that could never be attributed to his wakeful self.

Fair hair spilled across the pillow, one hand dipping out of sight, warm as it skimmed Grantaire’s arm. The other arm he’d flung out to his left, and his shorts had been pulled low with a kicked out leg, the indent of a tapering hipbone shadowed where the morning sun could not reach. 

Grantaire watched him, trying to throw up some kind of guard as he wondered what right he had to wake up like this, to have his drowsy eyes focus with this vision before him. 

Enjolras let out a small sigh, chest rising, and his feet shifted lightly, whispering against the sheets. The skin between his brows puckered and before Grantaire knew what he was doing he’d reached out a single finger, and gently traced his warm skin, from his brow to the straight point of his nose, feather light, drunk at the feel of it.

He drew back quickly, hating how fast his heart was beating at all that was surrounding him, at Enjolras next to him, his hand resting against his arm, the feeling of being so utterly overwhelmed crashing over him as he lay there in that quiet bedroom, light pale and soft and Enjolras’s steady breathing beside him. But that all cast up a tempest in  
Grantaire’s mind, far more raging than the one that had washed across Paris that night. 

He pulled away from Enjolras’s unconscious touch, as if he were ripping the warmth away, heaving back on the sheets as he clambered clumsily from the bed, feet hitting against the cool panelled floor.

He might have gone further. But Enjolras’s hand whipped out and closed tightly round his wrist, pulling him back down rather unceremoniously onto the mattress.

“Go back to sleep.” He said, voice husky and eyes still closed, so he missed the way Grantaire looked at him as if he had just dropped from the sky.

“I have to go.” Grantaire heard himself saying weakly, and _god_ he wished he knew why that had slipped out, why his mind was so stubborn in fighting this, why he wouldn’t _let_ himself have this. But those reasons where the roots of where a lot of thoughts took growth, from where every insecurity and every single doubt stemmed, and perhaps he didn’t want to look too closely at that.

Enjolras snorted.

“It’s seven thirty on a Saturday morning, Grantaire.” He said, voice still weighed by sleep, the sun kissing lustre onto his closed blonde lashes. “Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

He seemed to feel Grantaire hesitate, and a moment later he opened his eyes. And Grantaire’s mind sung that he was the first thing Enjolras saw that morning. His mind sung, and he felt sick again.

Enjolras lifted his head from the pillow, shifting his weight and turning to fully face Grantaire. Curls sprawled and angled unbidden about his head, and his lids were heavy, looking for all the world like some freshly woken Adonis, a lazing Helios. His grip was firm as he readjusted his hold of Grantaire’s wrist, fingers wrapping about it and determinedly dragging him closer. Grantaire followed.

Enjolras pulled him close, his soft breaths loud against Grantaire’s ear as he tossed the sheets back over him. An arm wound its way closely around Grantaire’s waist, pinning him against him and Grantaire screwed his eyes shut, because this was real and happening and he still wasn’t sure _how_. 

“I’d always taken you to like early mornings.” Grantaire finally said, his voice hoarse, half-muffled by the pillows he was tracing with the hand not falteringly sketching invisible lines against Enjolras’s fingertips, trying to focus on the splaying fabric and not the warmth of Enjolras against him. “What’s dawn in her yellow robe, that rosy-fingered child of morn in the face of social justice?”

“Hmm.” Enjolras sounded torn between disapproval and amusement, but overall his voice still dragged with drowsiness and Grantaire’s heart was leaping nauseatingly. “I am going to assume morning repartee and quoting classical literature is just part of your routine.”

“I’m clearly a stickler for routine.” Grantaire agreed, closing the eye not buried against a stray pillow, a hand curled underneath it. That made it worse, or a thousand times better, to heighten two senses and be enfolded in the scent that clung to Enjolras’s room, to his body, and to hear him waking up, his breathing heavy and movements languid as his hand stretched across Grantaire’s ribs.

“Clearly.”

“So much so that I can pinpoint the emergence of a raging hangover to the exact minute.”

“Hmm.” Enjolras let that sound hit the back of his throat again, the vibration of it loud with Grantaire’s ear so near to his lips. His hand began to skim across Grantaire’s skin, almost cautiously as he ran his fingers along the lines of his ribs, across the hollow of his chest, charting out his bare skin with idle movements. Grantaire tightened his grip on the pillow, “I suppose you can be glad pneumonia isn’t added to that.”

“My saviour.” Grantaire said tightly, eyes screwed shut and forcing a smile to twist his lips as his brain sang _not for me, not for me._

He heard the rustle of bed sheets, felt the way the mattress dipped, but he only opened his eyes when Enjolras’s fingers came feather-light to his left temple.

He was resting above him; pressed up on his elbows, shadows darkening the hollow of his shoulder as his head tilted, locks of hair still splayed at different angles. Tiredness still blurred his eyes, but that did nothing to detract from the severe look he was now sending him.

The proximity of him, the gentle pressing of his weight on the edge of Grantaire’s body sent his mind into overdrive. That strangling feeling was back, seeming to close his throat and press on his chest, and his hands trembled slightly.

“Talk to me,” Enjolras said, in the tone that shot down arguments, the tone that wouldn’t allow room for manoeuvre. The warmth of a bare leg skimmed Grantaire’s, and Grantaire didn’t think there was any chance of him wanting to manoeuvre, anyway.

“We _have_ been talking.” Grantaire said weakly, unable to drag his eyes from Enjolras’s, too intoxicated by the sight of him, all the features of morning clinging to him. “In fact, I’ve been frequently told talking is one of my few strong points.”

Enjolras didn’t look particularly amused by his answer. His hair really did look ridiculous, Grantaire decided, and a smile tugged his lips slightly at that, until Enjolras shifted his shoulders and spoke again. 

“Is this what you want?”

“What?” Was all Grantaire could manage, trying to get his tired, hurting mind round the question. Suddenly coffee didn’t feel like it would go amiss. 

“I told you I’d assumed a lot,” Enjolras said, watching Grantaire closely, eyes trained on his face, and Grantaire couldn’t move from the scrutiny, pinned down by his gaze and unable to tear away from the gentle pressure of Enjolras’s body against his, “And I think I have. My mind’s been in overdrive, and this has all felt,” He trailed off, and if Grantaire thought Enjolras could look self-conscious he saw it now, a small flush stealing across his sun-warmed skin as he looked down at him, “Right.” He finally said, and the serious look was back on his face, that steely determination that Grantaire clung to, propped himself against.

“But,” Enjolras’s full lips tightened slightly before he continued, face still solemn, “I don’t know how _you_ feel, Grantaire.” He was really quite close, Grantaire thought, some hushed observation that made his stomach lurch.

Grantaire dropped his gaze to his hands that were now working together on his chest, some small barrier between Enjolras and him that he wished he could drop, but he _couldn’t_. Perhaps there was some bitter humour to it that now was the time his mind would try to help him with that refusal. He didn’t even know if help was the definition. 

He felt Enjolras’s gaze on him still and tilted his neck back with a tired sigh, flicking his eyes unthinkingly back to him, in time to see Enjolras’s lashes spark bright as his eyes followed his movements.

“We’ve talked about this already.” He told him, and Enjolras looked back up at his eyes, sunlight still tangled in his wild curls. “I think this is definitely part of some dream- that is, this isn’t even…I think it’s fine to assume that I am _ok_ with this.”

Enjolras studied him thoughtfully, still raised on his elbows and Grantaire met his eye, both taking in one another, eyes trained almost as if they were back as two figures not friends but not strangers, Grantaire happy to fix his gaze on him even if the only words he spoke were designed to irritate. But now Enjolras was centimetres away, hair mussed and his loose t-shirt rumpled by sleeping, sleeping with Grantaire pressed against him, cradled there.

“Let’s go somewhere.” Enjolras said, something passing across his fixed gaze as he stared down at him, and Grantaire felt his fingers yearning to touch his hair, to tangle in what looked like some untamed aureole, but as ever he held himself back, surrendering to temptation in everything but this.

“Could this be spontaneity at last?” He asked with mock astonishment, throwing a hand to his heart, “Have you at last decided to take note of the seasons?”

What started out as exasperation shifted into tired amusement on Enjolras’s features,

“No.” He said, and perhaps there was the smallest smirk on his lips as he spoke the word, “I want to be a decent host and offer you breakfast, but I’m a little short of food here.”

“‘A little short?’” Grantaire snorted, sending him a doubtful smirk, “I’m fairly sure there’s nothing in a hundred metre radius but granola bars and fair trade coffee.”

“Name me a significant negative of having fair trade coffee over regular.” Enjolras said stoutly, and with that tone the old Enjolras was back, the one with singular thoughts and passions that would propel them all forwards, leaving Grantaire reeling in his wake. But he also had never felt more like he was home.

He watched him with little guard as he put his hands out in mock surrender, taking in, _drinking_ in Enjolras; leaning over him like some tousled avenging angel, but, no that had been versed before and Enjolras possessed something far more untainted and _angelic_ than any angel. He almost dared to push him as he had so often before, to see that spark light in his eyes, to see faith and drive command his words and Grantaire could prop himself against him, tangle himself in his being, charmed and intoxicated by his convinced nature. 

But any action on his part was dissolved when Enjolras’s considering gaze slowly flooded with something, and he leant down, one rucked sleeve of his t-shirt slipping down as he closed the distance between them and softly kissed Grantaire.

The action was gentle, almost like a consideration tentatively played out and it took Grantaire aback, sending his heart thrumming blood through his veins, shockwaves as his senses lit at the touch. It didn’t matter that Grantaire’s mouth was dry, his head sore, or that a sleepy taste clung to Enjolras’s lips, it all contributed to the strangling ecstasy that had suddenly flooded Grantaire, a feeling that closed his throat as if tears were threatening him. 

When Enjolras pulled away his side pressed against Grantaire’s, and they stared at one another, eyes still hazy, breathing rasping. 

“Do you want to use the shower?” Enjolras asked, shoulders shifting as he raised a hand to his own arm, absently running his nails over the skin. And Grantaire wanted to say no, to lie there with Enjolras with the sun shining on them, for as long as the world kept time and far beyond that, because he failed to see how the world could brighten any more than this morning, even with the sun arcing ever higher.

But he didn’t voice that, instead voiced an affirmation, but before he could call himself back, two fingers reached up and wound themselves gently around a lock of hair. And Enjolras smiled.

He distracted himself with loud, tuneless singing once in the shower, as he replaced the smell of Enjolras’s clothing with his shampoo, folding himself into Enjolras’s morning routine, envisioning the Enjolras he’d first conjured when he’d used this shower so long ago, now dizzied by all that had changed, and all that seemed to have resolutely stayed the same.

It turned out his jeans hadn’t dried given the heaped pile he’d discarded them in the previous night, something he’d have left uncommented but for Enjolras, pressing a pair of tracksuit bottoms into his hands with a line to his mouth that he’d use in rallies and high-powered debates. Even if there was a blush along his cheeks as he determinedly stared at Grantaire’s eyes and not his towel clad lower half. And Grantaire decided he could live on that image for the rest of his life. He rolled the trouser legs up twice. 

Enjolras had changed his clothes, no longer the sleep-rumbled figure that Grantaire had started his day with, and he immediately felt a loss at that, a selfish part of him mourning a sight that had been only his and Enjolras’s. This Enjolras before him belonged to the world, the world he so desperately wanted to help.

The city that morning was grey, orange and yellow. The roofs had been washed dark and shining by the rain, the chimneys stark orange by contrast; emitting faint tendrils of smoke that rose and furled about the clustered rooftops. The air felt scrubbed clean by the weather, soothing to Grantaire’s hung-over mind as they headed up the rain-washed street, Enjolras’s arm skimming his, never alone in a city filled with workmen, cleaners and the first tides of commuters who worked even on a Saturday.

It was companionable silence that sheathed them as they walked, onto the ever busy Boulevard Saint-Germain where the thin, budding trees dripped water. There was little unease to it, Grantaire supposed, sneaking glances at the figure beside him, and perhaps the part of him that had recently become so _manic_ about Enjolras was, for the moment, placated.

He lightly touched Enjolras’s arm when the Boulevard Saint-Germain met the Rue du Bac, the windows here shaded by vivid orange blinds, street sweepers rattling and rumbling as they drove slowly past, the wet noises of the road reverberating through the air.

“Cheap-ish good hot drinks.” Was all he said.

The air of the café he had indicated was thick with the scent of coffee and the sweet, warm smell of freshly cooked pastries. The place was busy with sleepy-eyed locals, and in the end they sat at a table outside, sheltered underneath a still-dripping awning, wicker and iron chairs thankfully dry.

Grantaire absently ordered a croissant and a café au lait, distracted by Enjolras’s hands resting on the table, and the leftover raindrops dripping from above onto the sleeve of Enjolras’s coat.

An angry mother passed them, a tear-streaked child in her grasp as he trailed after her, and they both caught the angry words she was spilling at him. Enjolras appraised them pensively, a small frown on his face, only looking back when the waiter deposited their order.

“Thinking of how to save all the poor unwanted children of this planet?” Grantaire asked with a smirk, pulling his drink towards him, perhaps a little overzealously.

“You believe I can?” Enjolras shot back, the quirk to his lips seeming to suggest he thought he’d trapped him into confessing faith in him. And Grantaire watched him through guardedly amused eyes as he shoved his pastry into his mouth, wondering what exactly went on in Enjolras’s so painstakingly organized mind in regards to the dark-haired sceptic before him. 

“Yes.” He finally said, and left it at that. Enjolras was blushing again. 

The headache tugging at the back of his head dulled as the contents of his cup emptied, and with it tired contemplations began to plague his mind as he studied Enjolras, watching him observe the busy streets around them, lighting on the people Grantaire could only guess he dreamed of liberating. The word struck odd with Grantaire, something grandiose and almost theatrical, a near enough ludicrous prospect. He sat there in that early morning haze of the city, the smell of rain, coffee, food and Enjolras’s clothing swathed about him, wishing he could feel like Enjolras. To read so many headlines and feel shivers cross his skin as hope sparked in his heart. But faith, hope and all those words held little connotations to him, those words would twist and die in his chest. He could never feel at one with so many across the world who so desired and felt change, he only felt at one with those laughed bitterly to hide the betrayal the once seemingly gleaming world had caused them.

“What are you thinking?” Enjolras’s voice broke Grantaire’s spiralling ruminating and he focused to find him looking at him, his fingers tracing the lip of his cup. He’d combed his hair before they’d left, but Grantaire’s heart warmed as he spied the curling strands he’d missed.

“Nothing that would please you, I’m sure.” Grantaire snorted, leaning back in his chair. He rested a hand on his leg, starting as he remembered he was wearing Enjolras’s jogging bottoms. The thought made his head rush slightly. “I was being melancholic, and perhaps finding humour with the worthlessness of so much.”

“All that from morning coffee?” Enjolras asked dryly. 

“Nonsense. I just simply observe the street.” Grantaire informed him, a small smile playing on his lips as he leant an arm over his chair and nodded to the first person he spotted, the other hand toying with his half-empty cup, “For instance, there is a businessman heading to work, where he’ll probably stay until six, even on a Saturday, working with our ingrained need of financial success, before going home to his wife and two children. Statistics say they’ll probably divorce in a few years. Over there is a man begging, and maybe he’ll get about ten euros today if he stays on this busy road, enough to buy whatever he’s doubtless addicted to, and that will keep him where he is, because this government isn’t going to help him past shelters and the odd meal. There’s another businessman, and I expect his story is much like the first’s, although perhaps he’s wealthier, so he might drop two euros into our begging man’s cup and carry on with his day, fulfilled with the idea that he did his upmost to help him and not consider for a moment that he’s part of the problem. Is there such a thing as charity, Enjolras? The concept sometimes sits a little ill with me. Ah! There’s an art student crossing the street, at least, I assume, I think I know that caffeine and paint stained look well. He doesn’t have a euro to spare-he’s trying to make ends meet whilst living in a city- he’s got his own debt to worry about. Not to mention the fact that he’ll never get a job once he graduates, like most of our generation. Hemingway said that every generation was lost by something, and this one seems to be lost by far too much. They say we haven’t grown up with war, so in that we are lucky; but they seem to think those dying in their thousands outside Europe don’t count. We’re taught the things that they think matter, the nine-to-five routine, the nuclear family, earning a degree in _something_. And then we realize that in fact, nothing matters. The world is a useless construction that we strive to find meaning in. But we can’t get our heads around the fact that _nothing_ matters. Nothing counts for anything; the world spins regardless, futile repetition of everything. I suppose the worst would be if _everything_ mattered, because I’m scared of what people would do with the world then. But no, the world beats on, the people carry on as they’ve ever been, and we sit here with caffeinated drinks and I try to ignore the way your hair is catching in the breeze because I’m not sure if you’ll let me touch it, even though that’s never stopped me watching you before.”

Enjolras watched him calmly throughout his dry rambling, ignoring the strands of curls blowing in his face, eyes slightly lidded and mouth serious. He had leant forwards on his elbows, and he shifted at the last part of Grantaire’s impromptu speech, and a sudden, wild, alarm swept through Grantaire as he realized his tongue had slipped in a way he hadn’t really meant it to. He’d spoken randomly, weakly sifting matters that pressed on his mind and crushed him, and he’d half expected Enjolras to cut him off, and perhaps he’d been half hoping he would immediately contradict him and pin him down with that fierce look that would steal across his grey blue eyes and Grantaire could feel that, just perhaps, there was something in this world that was special and different and _ablaze_.

“Nothing you’ve said you haven’t said before.” Enjolras finally told him, and his voice was measured, not terse and short as it so often was with Grantaire, “Perhaps that’s part of your repetitive world. And you’re right, whilst the people you’ve pointed out don’t want or even consider change, it’s not something that can occur. But you have inadvertently suggested that any person can inspire change, that every person matters, and that’s what I believe. It’s a _truth_. Change is achieved by a majority, and it’s getting that majority that matters- by reaching to every person, not just here on these streets, but all over the world. You say this generation is the most lost of all, but I say this generation is the one that makes a difference. That _finds_ new ways. That finds its way out of a system that teaches us so wrongly what we’re worth. Simply pinning the idea of parallels onto the past and the present is no argument against the possibility of change.”

His cheeks had grown flushed as he’d spoken, and a part of Grantaire was calmed, like some warm wave had washed over him; him, some twisted piece of flotsam. And he was pulled out with the tide utterly happily, no matter what reservations he took with him. To roil and churn amongst Enjolras’s optimism, his fierce and unwavering beliefs, was like breathing for the first time by some twist of irony. It made him feel whole, and _god_ , was it so twisted that it was only with him and his group of friends that he felt that elusive thing called happiness? It was no new realization, but it hit poignant in his chest with each deliberation nonetheless. 

The waiter passed them on his way for a quick cigarette break, and deposited the cheque by Enjolras’s elbow. Enjolras was still watching Grantaire, cheeks still burning and eyes bright, perhaps waiting for Grantaire to contradict him yet again. He could, but he didn’t. 

“And for the record, Grantaire.” Enjolras said a length, and there was something new to the set of his shoulders as he leant back slightly in his seat, “You are welcome to touch my hair whenever you like.” 

Grantaire had little to say for once after that, a smile tugging at his lips as he finished his drink, the both of them silent; their world now reduced to the clink of spoons against cups, and the sounds of a city rousing itself, not that places like Paris ever slept. 

Enjolras still looked tired, his eyes pensive now, no doubt musing freshly over the ideas he’d defended his beliefs with against Grantaire’s rambling cynicism. Grantaire could get caught in that look, could feel on fire too, dust stream caught behind a comet. 

In amongst it all, his flaming ideas, the growing rush of traffic and the clatter and noise inside the restaurant, Enjolras reached forwards and took Grantaire’s hand in his. The contact still had the capacity to shock him, and he doubted he would ever feel anything but warmth when Enjolras touched him, however lightly. The edges of his fingernails traced invisible patterns along Grantaire’s hand, hard skin then switching to the soft pads of his fingers. They were mindless movements, with his eyes faraway, but it was soothing. At length, he looked at Grantaire, shifting his gaze from the street that he hadn’t been truly seeing, and instead focusing on the messy-haired student before him, whose head was pounding freshly again. The smile he gave him was slow, but it gradually lit his whole face, taking Grantaire completely aback, and he found himself unable to look anywhere but at him, not that he felt he ever looked away. 

The sun shining on the street lit the falling raindrops that still dripped from roofs and awnings, and glinted on car windows as their drivers headed about their day. And it lit Enjolras’s hair as he smiled at Grantaire, who, not for the first time, thought that Paris was playing host to two suns, and one was far brighter than the other.

* * *

From her perch on the sofa, Eponine yawned around a mug of tea, refraining from the urge to rub at her tired eyes. Combeferre shot her an amused look as he set his coffee down on the table standing by his leg, returning to scrolling down the news article he’d been studying on the laptop laid across their knees.

The living room of the flat Combeferre shared with Feuilly and Bahorel was dark that morning; the curtains still half drawn across the windows and the orange walls reminding Eponine of marmalade. There was a lazy warmth to the room that was relaxing, some quiet haven away from the bustle of a waking city. From the occasional snore issuing from one of the rooms, it appeared Combeferre’s roommates were still asleep. 

One of her legs had somehow come to spread out during the course of their sitting there, and now rested over Combeferre’s, and their heads brushed as he leant back. There was an easiness to the proximity, Eponine thought, glazing her thumb over the handle of the mug Combeferre had given her, an easiness that should have alarmed her, but for some reason utterly failed to. 

He hadn’t questioned her turning up at his front door at ten o’clock in the morning, had happily let her in despite still being in the t-shirt and plaid bottoms he’d slept in, hair mussed from his pillow. Perhaps she couldn’t really explain her growing presence around him to herself; she’d tried to yesterday, under the shade of a four hundred year old tree as Combeferre had spoken gently to her, words for her ears alone. Perhaps there was something soothing to his presence, a new wavelength that was far calmer than anything she was used to. Perhaps it was the focus he afforded her when he spoke to her, the way he talked to her as if she was the only one worth talking to, his calm, measured gaze for her only. Maybe that was a little selfish of her, she thought now. But whilst distrust and caution layered her, Combeferre’s calm grey eyes held sincerity to them, as if he were something different in a world where she’d learnt everyone had their own agenda and the only person who would help you was yourself. That was partly why Marius had clung to her heart. There was a naivety to him, an earnestness that had been foreign to her. But there was little naivety to Combeferre, but a calm wisdom that felt trustworthy, however much that contemplation scared the always cautious part of her mind. 

“More estimated cuts for education programs.” Combeferre mumbled, more to himself than to her, and she watched the way his fingers lightly touched the computer keys, moving the article down, “I hate that it’s even being considered.” 

“I reckon your painfully difficult subject is safe.” Eponine told him with a smile, and liked the way Combeferre looked away from the article to appraise her, 

“I’m not going to follow the path my course seems to lay out, you know.” He told her ruminatively. 

“What are you going to do then?” She asked, surprised by desiring the answer, 

Combeferre was silent a moment, as if gathering his words and his eyes dropped unseeingly to the leg she’d thoughtlessly cast over him, and she suddenly felt a little self-conscious. 

“I want to take a postgraduate course in education.” Combeferre finally confessed, and a small smile lit his lips. He looked back at her face, and she thought that smile he wore was really rather beautiful. “I want to teach. Education is one of the best things that can help a person. To encourage young people to learn and to enjoy learning. I think it would answer to most problems.” 

Eponine said nothing at first to that, thinking over all the ‘problems’ most prevalent in her world. She’d noticed them all the more since meeting Combeferre and his friends, parts of her life immediately shown to be absurdly wrong when clashed against the morals and values exhibited by Marius and all these seemingly steadfast, honest students. 

“You can’t deny that some people are just arseholes, educated or not.” She finally snorted. 

“Of course I can’t.” Combeferre allowed, reaching forwards for his coffee again. Their hands collided as they both went to steady the laptop. The sudden contact made Eponine’s face heat. “But it is equally hard to deny how hard education can be to acquire.” He turned to her, fixing his gaze on her before continuing in a soft voice, “Over thirty million children across the world dropped out of school last year. About one million children don’t have access to any form education. Those numbers stagger me, and I can’t help but think of how different things would be if every little girl and boy all over the world could go to school and stay there. Learning is not just about simple maths, or who was the first president of America, it’s understanding the way our society works, how it functions and how we can improve it. Knowledge is about learning to question things.” He gave her a small, almost apologetic smile, as if he felt he had got carried away, and then gave a small, conclusive shrug, “I suppose I am behind the theory that knowledge is power.” 

She watched him take a sip from the coffee mug before leaning forwards to set it back down again, his spare hand still clutching the laptop. There was a strength to the way he voiced his thoughts, some unwavering determination that appeared similar to what she had seen of Enjolras. But Enjolras seemed a quick burning flare, likely to set all around him ablaze. Combeferre was a steady flame. 

He was looking at her now, and she wondered what he could read on her expression, what he saw that meant he wasn’t looking away. 

They both started slightly when the sound of scuffing feet interrupted the set, quiet rhythm of the room, and a moment later Feuilly appeared from his bedroom, shuffling into the living room and yawning grandiosely. 

“R’s coming over in a sec.” He said, arms resting on his head in a lazy stretch, “We’re utilizing my day off as an excuse to create stupid art at the studio.” 

“With a hangover, apparently.” Combeferre noted with wry amusement. 

“This is nothing.” Feuilly told them, a hand gesturing at himself as he headed towards the kitchen area behind their settee, “I drank half of what Bahorel did. Do we have bacon?” 

“In the fridge.” Combeferre told him absently, “What time did you get in last night?” 

“About three. Want a bacon sandwich, ‘Ponine?” 

“No, thanks.” She said through way of habit, prickling instantly. 

“Yeah and I think Bahorel’s moped is already broken. A shitload of water got in the carb. _So_ ,” Feuilly said with the air of somebody about to address the elephant in the room, flicking on the kettle and spinning round to face them, resting his hands on the counter. She and Combeferre looked back at him expectantly, “How long have you two been going out?” 

Combeferre let out a choking noise and Eponine placidly took in Feuilly’s raised eyebrows. The kettle began to gurgle and wail. 

“What?” She finally asked, and was then interrupted by the tinny sound of a phone going off. Combeferre let out a small groan and shifted to dig his mobile from his pyjama pocket. They both froze slightly as his head brushed against hers again. 

“Enjolras.” He sighed after swiping at the phone screen, a finger coming up to press against an eyelid, “I…yeah? It might be best to-” Eponine tuned out slightly, amused at Combeferre’s burning cheeks as he determinedly listened to Enjolras on the other line, his free hand now toying with the edges of the laptop. She turned to Feuilly, who was still watching them with a grin on his face. There were too many teeth flashing at her for it to be guileless. 

“You and Bahorel are worse than thirteen year old girls when it comes to gossiping.” She told him, and he sniggered, turning his attention to the grill settings. 

Combeferre ended the call when the smell of bacon grilling had begun to permeate the room; the opened window that led out to the fire escape sending in the occasional flood of cool air, the sound of traffic streaming with it. 

“Enjolras is coming by in half an hour or so.” He said somewhat apologetically, “We wanted to go over some details for next weekend.” 

“That’s ok.” She said, angling her head and leaning on her fingers, trying to fight the smirk on her face as Combeferre looked at her, and blushed again. “I have an essay to do today. Would you like a snapchat log of my progress?” 

Feuilly gave a wolf whistle from the kitchen, where he was now buttering bread. 

There was a loud, series of elaborate knocking on the door, of varying rhythms, just as the smoke alarm went off, which Combeferre went to answer as Feuilly dashed to the alarm with a tea towel, swearing loudly. 

Combeferre pulled the door open to reveal Courfeyrac and Jehan, who both looked momentarily alarmed at the scene they encountered. 

“I was just here to drop back one or two DVD’s I may have borrowed from Bahorel.” Courfeyrac told them, raising the stack of films in his arms- which definitely totalled to more than two, “But it seems this may be a bad time?” 

“Do I smell bacon?” Jehan added brightly. 

“Come in,” Combeferre told them graciously, stepping back, “Feuilly’s just trying to cook.” 

“It’s not my fault we don’t have a fucking extractor fan.” Feuilly growled, batting the alarm with the tea towel. It finally shut off, leaving a tinny wail still ringing in Eponine’s ears. She settled back again, reflecting that she really ought to spend more time around these idiots for the comedy they provided, however unwittingly. 

Courfeyrac headed over to the precarious stack of films by the battered television, glancing over at Eponine as he began to slot the borrowed DVD’s back in their place. 

“Well if it isn’t our little alley cat.” He grinned toothily, “It appears as if Combeferre has adopted you.” 

Eponine mirrored the smile as she held two fingers up at him. She didn’t see Combeferre’s reaction, but had the distinct impression that a lot of gossip was suddenly happening behind their backs. For one reason or another, the thought did far from irk her. 

“I think the alley cat can take care of herself.” Jehan smiled, taking up Combeferre’s vacated spot on the sofa, drawing his knees up to his thin chest. Today he was wearing a slightly terrifying jumper depicting a sloth in a top hat. Eponine thought it best not to question it. 

“Are we going out for drinks tonight?” Courfeyrac asked, having stopped his act of putting DVD’s back and was now studying the backs of other cases, “If your liver can handle it, that is, Feuilly.” 

Someone was knocking at the door again as Feuilly snorted loudly, and Jehan sprang off the sofa, patting Eponine on the leg as he went, dashing to the door and throwing it open. 

“You both met on the stairs?” He exclaimed at Enjolras and Grantaire who were both standing at the door, apparently unaware their arms were brushing. Grantaire’s expression was painfully casual, hands in the pockets of a pair of tracksuit bottoms. 

“Yes, I suppose we did.” He agreed, a grin twisting his thin lips, and Eponine was suddenly under the impression she’d missed a joke. Grantaire tapped Jehan fondly on the shoulder as he moved past him, taking a brief second to take in the crowded apartment, “Wow, is this a party? Combeferre, you should have told me the dress code was pyjamas.” 

“I suppose some of you want to steal our hard-earned bacon?” Feuilly asked from somewhere behind Eponine, and a moment later a plate was deposited into her lap, bacon sandwich incorporated. He played deaf to her resulting words of protest. 

“I’ve eaten.” Grantaire told him, flopping down next to Eponine and leaning forwards to press a kiss of greeting to her cheek. He smelt of cigarettes, and some sweet shampoo she thought perhaps she knew from somewhere else. 

“Me too,” Enjolras said. He was out of Eponine’s sight, but she caught the odd look Combeferre sent him as he went to collect his coffee mug, as well the small smirk that lit Grantaire’s face. 

“How are you?” She asked Grantaire, surrendering and picking up the bacon sandwich that really did look rather good. 

Out of all the people she’d met whilst studying in Paris, she felt that perhaps she and Grantaire held the closest unspoken, mutual understanding. There was always a silent guard in his eyes that she felt she recognized, and she sensed his smiles rarely were fully genuine. He was the one who’d sat down next to her in a student bar so long ago and bought her a drink, and they’d moodily reflected, that in spite of a lot of things, they both really quite liked Paris. Those certain ‘things’ had become clear to one another through time. 

Grantaire now went to respond, then seemed to focus on whatever he had been absently looking at and raised a questioning eyebrow. Eponine followed his gaze and saw Courfeyrac was looking at Grantaire, and his face was bright purple. 

“Jesus, Courf,” Grantaire said conversationally, sliding further down the sofa, a hand running idly over the fabric of his trousers, “You look like you’re choking.” 

“ _I’m_ fine,” Courfeyrac said, seeming to have found his voice, even if it was a little shrill, 

“Well, good,” Grantaire seemed to be hiding a grin with difficulty, and there was a new energy to him that Eponine felt herself sensing. He pulled a packet of mints from his pocket and looked utterly surprised that they were there. 

Enjolras and Combeferre had settled opposite them on the floor beside the coffee table. Combeferre was shooting looks towards the spot he had left and Eponine sent him a smirk. Feuilly’s words had slotted in with things she had been contemplating recently, things she had been imagining and finding she would be far from averse from. Perhaps in a way they had accidentally fallen into the attitudes of two people who were together, she and Combeferre, and she found herself thinking of him not at all like the diversion she had initially considered him as, but as someone she desperately wanted to know everything about, someone she would _want_ to spend all day on a sofa with, their limbs entwined and voices soft. The contemplation made her heart squirm. Combeferre was both an easy and a difficult person for her to think of in such a large role. On one hand there _was_ an easiness to his company, that she had never really felt with anyone before. Montparnasse was only present in her life when he wanted her physical company, and he was scarce enough these days for her to assume he had found others to placate that wish. And casting aside everything, Montparnasse was always a slender, dark-haired reminder of the world she so hated, a reminder of a lost childhood and a constant presence of distrust and fear. And Combeferre’s eyes were grey and comforting. 

The smoke detector went off again and they all jumped. 

“Shut up, you bastard!” Feuilly yelled at it furiously through a mouthful of bacon sandwich, running to bat at it again. 

“Thank _god_ you don’t live with Joly.” Jehan mused when Feuilly had torn the battery from the alarm and chucked it down on the kitchen counter, quiet reigning again as he returned to his breakfast, “You should have seen him the time Bossuet set the fire alarm off with the toaster.” 

“Mint imperial, Enjolras?” Grantaire asked loudly, waving the packet in his direction, “If you can move past its unfortunate connotations with oppressive land domination.”  
Enjolras had paused whatever he had been discussing with Combeferre when Grantaire had addressed him, almost unconsciously seeming to turn towards him. At Grantaire’s words, the corners of his lips twitched. 

“ _Why_ ,” Began a loud, suffering voice, and underneath it Eponine thought she had heard Courfeyrac squawk for some reason, “Are you people awake?” 

She shifted round to see Bahorel standing at the door to his bedroom, his hair vertical and dressed in nothing but a pair of rather asymmetrical boxers. 

“Why am I awake?” He continued, shuffling forwards towards the direction of the kitchen, and rubbing at a bleary eye. “Oh yeah,” He paused to scowl at Feuilly who was failing to look innocent whilst holding his bacon sandwich, “Because _somebody_ cannot fucking cook.” 

“The smoke detector is oversensitive.” Feuilly said defensively, sounding nettled. 

“What a terrible problem to have.” Eponine interjected with a snort. 

“Eponine, why?” Feuilly said, sounding wounded, “Bahorel go away, you’re indecent and there are ladies present.” 

“I need to eat the crap that woke me up.” Bahorel mumbled, movements sleepy and slow as he headed for the oven. Eponine knew enough about Bahorel to know that it would be unwise to try and stop him. 

“We’re all going out tonight, you know.” Feuilly was now telling him with a grin, “Can you manage it?” 

Bahorel’s answering snort was extremely loud. 

“‘We did sleep day out of countenance and made the night light with drinking.’” Grantaire mused rhetorically, his chin resting on his fist. 

“We’re going to the library to get some logistics for next week sorted,” Enjolras announced, a hand extended to help up Combeferre, who was still perched on the floor below him, “Did you want to come, Courfeyrac?” 

The look he sent him probably wasn’t supposed to be intimidating, but Courfeyrac did appear suitably trapped. Grantaire gave a low chuckle. 

“Courf and I are going to Provins today.” Jehan stepped in, then shot Combeferre a quick look, “Through Gare de l’Est, not your car.” 

“Jehan wants to see the chivalric, jousting knights of the Middle Ages,” Courfeyrac added, as if that explained spending a day at a medieval town. 

“Well, Grantaire and I are going to create shit art.” Feuilly announced, setting his plate in the sink and licking his fingers free of ketchup. Eponine thought she heard a mournful mutter from Combeferre about washing up. 

“Speak for yourself.” Grantaire told him, stretching, “Feel free to come, ‘Ponine. Feuilly is terrible company.” 

She refused him good-naturedly in between Feuilly’s dramatic outrage, trying to ignore just how warm her heart had grown from sitting here with this group of people. It was ridiculous to pin her happiness on people, because people were unreliable and deceitful at the best of times. But she snuck glances at them all now, as they argued good-humouredly, vying to make their voices heard, and she was surprised by the fondness she found in her chest. It wasn’t just with Combeferre, they all seemed to exhibit a certain light that had been so absent to her in all else. 

She got up to leave with Combeferre and Enjolras, setting her mug down and leaving the warmth of the self-made nest on the settee, already grieving that morning spent quiet and unworried. Somehow, Combeferre’s hand ended tangled in hers, and she couldn’t have said who initiated it. 

“Oh.” Enjolras said as if he’d just remembered something, looking over his shoulder at Grantaire as he straightened the collar of his coat, “Please don’t get paint on my sweat pants.” 

The look he gave Grantaire was as hard as ever, but as he turned away and Courfeyrac went purple again and exclaimed “ _What_?” she definitely caught his lips curled tightly into a smirk.

* * *

Marius hit his head against the roof of the car doorframe and decided abruptly that he may have had one drink too many.

Behind him, Courfeyrac pressed his palms into his shoulders, telling him soothingly that nobody had seen before pulling him into one of his overfamiliar embraces. 

The narrow street that ran along the Musain was unsurprisingly busy for a Saturday night, the neon lights blinking and washing the street bright yellow. Bollards lined the grey pavements, motorbikes rushing past them, the noise of their engines almost obscured by the beat of music and loud chatter of people heading home drunk. 

And Marius could safely declare he was one of them. 

“Ten people will _not_ fit in this car.” Enjolras was saying in his not-to-be-argued-with-under-any-circumstances voice, and he did seem to have an awfully good point. 

Their Saturday night was unlikely to have been a quiet one, and in the end there had been thirteen of them all crammed in one booth, where they’d based their drinks that night. Marius was eighty per cent certain Cosette had been happily trying to get him drunk, and refusing her was something he’d discovered was very much not within his power. She’d already left an hour before owing to a curfew set by a rather terrifying sounding father, but the parting kiss she’d pressed to Marius’s lips still felt warm as if she’d parted two seconds ago. Eponine was nowhere to be seen now, either, and Marius hadn’t noticed her leave. She had appeared to have been dancing rather frequently with Combeferre tonight. 

“We’re walking back!” Bossuet told the group assembled hopefully around Combeferre’s much put upon car, Enjolras guarding the driver’s door with an unimpressed expression on his face, as if he hadn’t been the one who had insisted on driving them all home. The ‘we’ became clear as Bossuet laced an arm over Joly and Musichetta, staggering slightly on the tilt where the road met the pavement. 

“Goodnight, lovelies!” Joly beamed, stumbling forwards to give everyone a departing hug that lasted at least seven seconds each. Marius caught Musichetta’s gaze and she gave him a rather devious wink that set him blushing, before she took Joly’s hand again and began to lead the two students down the narrow street. 

“We still cannot fit eight people in a five-seater car.” Enjolras told them, tones bordering on despairing. 

“Where’s your usual misplaced optimism?” Grantaire said from behind Marius, his hand coming down on Marius’s shoulder as he moved him aside to clamber in the back of the car, a cigarette in his mouth. Marius had seen him down so much alcohol that evening he was astounded he was still in relative control of his limbs. 

Enjolras pursed his lips. 

“It’s fine,” Combeferre said quickly, laying a hand on Enjolras’s shoulder, “If you can all get in the back without suffocating yourselves, I guess it’s feasible.” 

“Challenge accepted.” Courfeyrac said cheerfully, taking Jehan’s hand as if he were some medieval nobleman, and half lifting him into the car. 

Combeferre might have been joking about suffocation, but as Marius found himself pressed against the car window, Courfeyrac’s elbow digging into his ribcage and Jehan perched on top of them, he considered that this perhaps hadn’t been the best plan. 

“Bahorel,” Feuilly said in a pained voice from somewhere to Marius’s right, “Can you just walk, please?” 

“No.” 

“Your shoulders are too fucking broad.” 

“If anyone’s earned the right to walk it’s you. I’d have slept until two o’clock this afternoon if you didn’t exist.” 

“Shut up.” Enjolras told them, cutting across whatever Feuilly’s retort might have been, and twisted the keys in the ignition. Grantaire let out a small sound of amusement. 

“Eloquent as ever,” He said, and Marius heard the smile in his voice, “So how are you three’s flawless plan on liberating us poor art students going?” 

“You should go to some of the meetings the students in your department have, Grantaire.” Combeferre told him calmly, turning to look at him as a small, angry inhale of breath came from the vicinity of the driving seat. “They are interesting to say the least.” 

“Only if you lot are there to colour it.” Grantaire said as the car pulled out onto the road. His words might have been complimentary, but there was a tone to his voice that made them a little mocking, “I’d miss your optimistic ideals otherwise.” 

“You came to some of the meetings we went to.” Courfeyrac reminded him, shifting slightly and causing Marius to knock his head against the window as Enjolras turned onto one of the large, spanning boulevards, “And you kept calling that boy with the large teeth Consul Incitatus every time he tried to disagree with Enjolras." 

Grantaire let out a harsh bark of laughter, and Jehan tittered nervously. Marius began to mentally recite the Italian verbs he’d learnt that day, wishing he’d had the same aptitude for Italian that he’d found he had for German. 

Jehan leant across him to rest his face against the car window, obscuring Marius’s view of the street as he stared up at the stars, a hand knotted absently in Courfeyras’s. Out of sight, Feuilly and Bahorel were exchanging half-muttered insults, now and then sniggering drunkenly. 

“So I’m not being given a picket, then?” Grantaire asked loudly as the car crawled forwards, taxis and mopeds announced by horns blaring, slowing their progress. 

“You have expressed quite clearly you have no interest in the matter.” Enjolras said, seeming to bight on his words. 

“Ah, I _said_ that. But I’ll tag along. The world is dull without you deluded idealists around.” 

“As long as you’re entertained, Grantaire.” Enjolras’s voice was clipped and beside Marius, Courfeyrac had tensed. The passing flash of streetlights hurt Marius’s eyes, and he glimpsed the Seine through Jehan’s arm, dark in the moonlight washed out by a city lit by electric lights. 

“Always am, Enjolras. So is this walkout at all dangerous or are we going to meekly dash up and down a street and then leave?” 

“R-” Feuilly began, but Grantaire cut him off. He was sniggering slightly, 

“No, it’s cool. I mean, it’s not very newsworthy, but so long as you feel like you’re achieving change, I guess.” 

Marius felt his stomach lurch as Enjolras pulled over, car horns blaring; the rushing lights ceasing as the car pulled to a stop. When he spoke, Enjolras’s voice was curt, and Marius wondered if he’d imagined it shaking with supressed anger. 

“Get out and walk the rest of the way.” He said, and it took Marius a moment to work out who he was talking to. Grantaire said nothing, and Marius could almost imagine his expression, eyes hooded and a smirk on his lips. 

“What?” Courfeyrac laughed loudly, but any attempt to diffuse the sudden rise in tension felt wasted, “Enjolras, you can’t-” 

“ _Grantaire_.” 

There was a brief stretch of silence, then a rustling of movement, 

“As you command.” Grantaire’s voice said, sounding amused, and Marius caught a brief flash of his dark hair before he clambered out of the car. The door slammed shut, reverberating through Marius’s ears. 

Enjolras barely waited a second before pulling back onto the road, breathing heavily, apparently seething. They all exchanged quick looks, uncomfortable silence falling. 

Combeferre had just drawn a breath to speak when Enjolras swore loudly and pulled over again, heedless to the cars behind them. Marius had barely time to register the exhibition of words he’d never really heard pass Enjolras’s lips before Enjolras threw his seatbelt off, still swearing fluently under his breath, leaving it to whip back and crack against the car as he shoved the driver door open, leaping out and slamming it behind him. 

“ _Fuck_.” Feuilly said in a low tone, and the sound of movement came as he swivelled in his seat to peer out the back window. 

“What just happened?” Bahorel echoed, and despite himself, Marius turned to look at the now vacated driver’s seat, the keys still in the ignition, and thought how very much over the zero point five limit they all were. 

The car was silent for a moment. 

“Is he coming back?” Marius asked.

* * *

The night wasn’t cold, but Enjolras was shaking as he walked, striding, feet hurried as he stepped from the road to the pavement that spanned high along the river, following its flow as he scanned the spaces filled by dark trees, bollards and closed bouquinistes. He couldn’t understand just why he was so angry, why every drop of blood in his veins seemed to suddenly be alight.

Grantaire’s words had been little different than usual, when he seemed so set to cut right where he perhaps knew he would, and of _course_ Enjolras had risen to it. It seemed a dynamic of theirs, some twisted thing that couldn’t be overlooked between them and right now he was seething, most of his rationality gone the moment he’d thrown the car door open, or perhaps the moment Grantaire had opened his mouth. 

Perhaps it was the hurt of the abrupt shattering of the world they had spun about themselves during last night, and the sleepy hours of the morning. Those hours had felt stolen to Enjolras, some alternate reality where he’d sat opposite Grantaire with morning coffee, or where he’d woken briefly in the span of gathering dawn and taken in the figure beside him, feeling Grantaire’s weight against his, how his breathing came stilled and slow and calm, the way his hair had rasped against the pillows when he had shifted. He studied the soft indent of shadows that clustered on the skin beneath his brows, the wild curling of black hair and wondered just how far in trouble he was. 

Very. 

He didn’t take too long to spot Grantaire, a lonely figure leaning against the wall that separated the road from the riverside below. He was still smoking the cigarette he’d climbed into the car with, and Enjolras had a sudden urge to snatch it from his hand, to stamp it to the litter-strewn pavement, and more than anything to shake into him the hope that so eluded his tired eyes. 

He looked up at Enjolras’s hurried steps, and seemed to double-take at his furious expression, eyes widening and a flush stealing across his drawn skin. 

“Why do you always do that?” Enjolras demanded before Grantaire could speak, marching towards him, mindless of the little distance he left between them when he at last drew to a halt. 

“What?” Grantaire asked, and his voice cracked slightly from its forcibly casual tone as a breeze stirred his hair, “Mess things up?” 

“I appreciate that you don’t think we have the capacity to change anything,” Enjolras railed on, unable to do anything but snap at him, so unbelievable _furious_ with the dark-haired figure before him taking such great pains to smoke so casually despite that fact that his fingers were shaking. “But you can be so unnecessarily _poisonous_ sometimes.” 

Grantaire paled slightly at that, and then a smile humourlessly turned the corner of his mouth, 

“I’ve been told the truth is painful.” 

“Yeah,” Enjolras bit back, watching Grantaire closely. A hand was working on his chest, and his usual cool façade whenever they had disagreements seemed to be crumbling, “I might settle for that if I thought you were remotely right. But I don’t think even you believe the things you said.” 

“Why are you so angry about this?” Grantaire questioned, that smile still playing oddly on his face. The wall behind him seemed to be the only thing holding him up, “My praiseworthy lack of doubt can’t be anything new to you, Enjolras.” 

And he wished he wouldn’t say his name like that, saying it with such tenderness like it was some secret to be guarded in amongst all his cynical words, and how could he be so angry and at the same time just want to pull Grantaire close, to feel the softness of his hair and just _hold_ him. 

“Do you just say it to antagonize me?” Enjolras asked, before he could consider the words. And that was what Grantaire did to him, he rushed into things with Grantaire by him, he didn’t think straight, as if he were in free-fall, and his fast-racing heart felt like something that wouldn’t adhere to the undistracted and thought-out way the rest of his life was constructed. 

Grantaire snorted loudly, a hand working over his face as he crushed his cigarette to the floor, and Enjolras pressed him further, his voice more steady. 

“What you said, was it your way of-” 

"What, Apollo?” Grantaire cut in, meeting his gaze properly for the first time, eyes unreadable. 

“Sending me away?” 

There was a brief stretch of silence, a silence that only stretched between them as the city went on; cars and taxis and mopeds crawling home, a few drunk figures stumbling on the other side of the road. The river glittered in the streetlights, a dark body of water that had travelled far and would travel further beyond Paris. 

“Sending you away?” Grantaire repeated thickly, and his breathing had grown erratic, eyes wide as he looked at him, “What? I ca-” He turned away, pressing his hands against his hair, his ears, and Enjolras watched him wordlessly, never feeling more lost, and it _scared_ him. 

“I slept last night,” Grantaire finally said, spinning on his feet to face him, and his hands went to his forehead, pressing his curls back. He was grinning, his lips apart, but there was a frenzy to it that didn’t paint any happiness on his features, “I don’t _sleep_ Enjolras, I can’t remember the last time I slept. It’s ridiculous, _I’m_ ridiculous.” He paused, swallowing heavily, and Enjolras realized with a sickening jolt that he was crying. The next words he spoke were a whisper, a confession, “I’m scared.” 

Enjolras watched him steadily, and any anger had left him, so rapidly it felt like it had been some feverish hallucination. He could hear Grantaire’s ill-measured breaths, as if he were trying to control himself and Enjolras found he hated himself, hated himself for making Grantaire feel this way, for being the reason that he stood before him now trying not to crumble. And he professed to want to help people, but how could he claim to have helped Grantaire. 

“I’m scared too.” He finally said, and against any part of consciousness he stepped closer to him, a hand reaching for him, yet not quite daring to touch him, “Not just because this is new to me, and for one of the first times in my life I’m unsure of what to do. I’m scared because it’s you, Grantaire,” He wished he knew why that was so hard to admit, why his heart felt twisted in his chest and why it hurt so much to have Grantaire looking at him so doubtingly, “I’ve realized you’re so important to me. And I want you.” 

Grantaire let out a low noise at that, a noise that choked his voice, and it broke whatever had been keeping Enjolras from touching him as he closed the space between them, a hand haltingly pulling Grantaire forwards as he wrapped his arms around him, his breeze-kicked up hair brushing his cheek. 

“I want to wake up to you a thousand times,” Enjolras murmured to him, wondering where this stem of words were suddenly ebbing from, how long they’d been pressed to his heart, waiting to be said. “As many times as I get to wake up, I want you there.” 

Grantaire was silent a moment, warm against Enjolras’s chest, and then he whispered, voice cracking, 

“Please don’t say those things to me.” 

Enjolras tugged him away to meet his gaze, eyebrows lowering and wondering how could he make Grantaire understand he meant what he said, how to make him believe in just that one thing. 

“I’m going to mess this up.” Grantaire pleaded quietly, his hands tangled in fabric resting on Enjolras’s shoulders, studying the way his hands twisted the material. 

“Not if I don’t first.” Enjolras told him, and after a moment they both gave short, breathless laughs, Grantaire lifting his gaze to Enjolras’s before dropping it. He was pressed against Enjolras still, from chest to knee and Enjolras’s mind felt dizzy and light and _feverish_. 

“This was never going to be easy,” He murmured to Grantaire, whose features where shielded by the curls of his dark hair, “But as you so habitually point out I believe in a lot of things. And I am strongly inclined to think that this is highly ranked as one of them.” 

Grantaire still didn’t say anything, and Enjolras still couldn’t see his expression, couldn’t see if he’d eased any of the burdens that weighed Grantaire, burdens he shouldn’t have to carry, that he wouldn’t if the world could be styled by Enjolras. 

He finally looked up, and he felt his heart twist at the watery smile he sent him. 

“And I believe in you.” He said quietly, speaking as if those words wouldn’t make Enjolras’s heart stutter and his breathing hitch, “So perhaps I can try and believe in that too.” 

And that reply did nothing to ease the fear that pressed on Enjolras’s chest, did little to think he had alleviated anything, and he had the slightest impression that was something nothing but time could do. 

But Grantaire was smiling, and it wasn’t bitter or mocking, but perhaps a little sad as he looked up at Enjolras. Enjolras unconsciously tightened his grip about him. 

And slowly, still hesitantly, Grantaire reached up and wound his fingers in his hair, shakily pressing the loose strands against the side of his face, eyes trained on his movements, and Enjolras distantly noted his own skin erupting in goosebumps. 

“I’d say you’re welcome to sleep at mine,” Grantaire said after a moment, his fingers still tracing the waves of his hair, “But I’ve just remembered a car full of drunk friends.” 

Enjolras swore under his breath at that, casting a look along the street, unsure if he could still see Combeferre’s car. 

“I’ll drop them back at Combeferre’s,” He said decisively, before turning back to Grantaire, “Then I’ll come to yours.” 

“What, no-” Grantaire exhaled heavily, looking alarmed suddenly, “My place is a mess.” 

“I know.” Enjolras said, half smiling and half pausing in uncertainty, “But I’d like to stay. Do you want to come in the car back?” 

Grantaire was looking at him with another unreadable expression, eyes slightly wide, darting across Enjolras’s expression as if he were searching for some hidden meaning. Eventually, he nodded absently. 

As he reached down and gently laced his fingers through his, Enjolras felt the impression that a painful weight had gone from him, leaving his shoulders in a way that let his breathing grow calmer. Grantaire hit his free hand against the stone wall as they walked, fingers taking in the cold, marked stone and Enjolras watched him out the corner of his eyes, and wondered how long he’d spent looking at Grantaire without fully realizing, and the disbelief of feeling so intoxicatingly _adrift_ when he did. 

They found Combeferre and the rest of them were still piled into the car, and they said little to him and Grantaire when they clambered back in. To Enjolras’s relief, the five or so minute drive back to Combeferre’s flat was maintained by Courfeyrac trying to persuade Combeferre to let he, Jehan and Marius stay over. By the time Enjolras pulled up next to Bahorel’s meekly abandoned moped, Combeferre had surrendered. 

Grantaire was quiet as Combeferre began to shepherd his impromptu guests towards the tenement block, Feuilly and Bahorel trailing behind as they clung to one another. Enjolras felt Combeferre’s gaze flicker back curiously to him now and then. 

“You’re welcome to stay, you two,” Feuilly told them, staggering slightly as he went to glance back at the pair of them, and Grantaire gave a loud laugh and declined just as Enjolras politely rejected the offer. He hoped it was too dark for anyone to see the heat that crept to his face. 

When the front door to the building slammed shut, and their friends’ drunken chattering went muted, Enjolras turned to Grantaire, face stern, through habit and not mirrored sentiment. 

“Are you still okay with this plan?” He asked after a brief stretch of quiet; the passing cars at the opening to the street their only background. 

“‘ _Okay?_ ’” Grantaire repeated as if to himself, turning the word in incredulity, and a small grin slowly twisted his lips, “Yeah, this plan, _any_ plan. Yes.” 

The look he fixed on Enjolras set his face heating again, and he reached for Grantaire’s hand, a movement that was growing wonderfully habitual, even if the warmth of those calloused fingers was something he might never acclimatize to. 

“As it would happen,” Grantaire said, and there was a new strength to his voice as they headed in the direction of the street he lived in, a place unremarkable from the rest of the centre of Paris, “I can offer a far superior breakfast to yours.” 

“Oh?” Enjolras asked with amusement, remembering the state of Grantaire’s food situation with something like mild despair, “You’ve bought food more substantial than stale crisps, then?” 

“Nah. A new café opened a few doors down.” 

“Ah.” 

Enjolras smiled as they walked, comfortable silence pressing on them as the lights of the city kept the streets bright, each of them furled in the reeling sensation contact with one another’s skin caused, their hands tangled together. And Enjolras snuck a look to Grantaire beside him, taking in the features he’d known for so long but never really _seen_ , and that bred shame in his heart, shame and the sense of waste. And he thought back to waking up beside Grantaire, pulling him against him as the morning light had spilled over them, and a tightness pulled across his chest at the memory. And Grantaire compared him to the sun, a comparison that seemed torn between self-mocking and revering, and as Enjolras moved his fingers absently over Grantaire’s he thought that perhaps some fire must be trapped in him, because everything felt ablaze now, and heat prickled along his skin at the contact. 

And the stars above Paris, already fading, glittered cool above their heads, but close to, they were burning as well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EEEKKK I'm still overwhelmed at all you lovely people reading and commenting on this you are all aces and it's blowing my mind  
> As always come say hi on [tumbleurghh](http://icarus-drunk.tumblr.com//) C:  
> brb getting a bacon sandwich ~~can you tell I was craving one~~


	13. In those days, though, the spring always came finally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Bahorel regrets playing scrabble with poets and coffee goes somewhat forgotten in the sunlight.

Hunkered down under the layers of blankets Combeferre had supplied him with, Jehan still shivered slightly as a soft whisper of cool air came across his exposed skin from the window across the room that had been left ajar. The coldness reminded him of back when Paris had been icy despite the sun, cold air biting at exposed skin and breath steaming with car exhausts and low cloud, the city washed in misty greys, and he’d wake to a room with frosted windows.

His eyes were fixed on the moonlight spilling free between the gap in the curtains, allowed to touch a thick streak of the room in silver, so unlike the previous night when all had been dark and the sky had roiled. The streetlights outside mixed the silver with orange, the well-known colour of the city at night when the sky above was clear.

Courfeyrac’s arm draped over him almost instinctively at Jehan’s involuntary movement, warm skin pressing against him and pulling him closer, and Jehan happily melted into his touch, feeling Courfeyrac’s chin skim the top of his head and hearing his breathing come soft and constant. 

They’d argued the other day, about something Jehan could now barely remember. Perhaps it had been more his own biting words, and Courfeyrac’s presence than an actual argument, but Jehan had then found himself wandering a random street of the city afterwards, alone and melancholic, trying to flow words together to attempt to describe the way he’d been hurting. But Courfeyrac had found him within an hour, before even sixty minutes of wallowing in barely describable gloom, and he’d felt so _warm_ as he’d pulled him into a tight embrace, holding him close, and he’d whispered that he loved him, that he loved him so much his head span with it. Jehan had typed those words into his phone later as they’d walked along the river to never forget them, to capture the way Courfeyrac had said them, those words that had never been said to him like that before, that had come to his ears a thousand times more wonderful than he’d ever thought possible. Those words still danced in his mind, as bright as the moonlight he saw now, strong and silver and he wished there was a way to revisit moments, because Courfeyrac holding him and speaking with the sun stark in the corner of his eyes in that crowded street would be something he would enfold himself in forever if he could.

He kept his gaze fixed on the cool darkness of Combeferre, Feuilly and Bahorel’s living room, hearing Marius’s breathing from the small armchair in the corner and the soft creak as he shifted slightly on the battered settee he and Courfeyrac had crammed themselves drunkenly onto. He quietly took in the room, draping the sight with words that would always flow into his mind when left in pensiveness. But he could see before him, and at the same time envision Courfeyrac, whose hand was gently stroking patterns on the fabric of his shirt, his breathing like the soughing waves that Jehan had loved since childhood. He could imagine what Courfeyrac looked like now, his coppery dark hair curled against the slumped pillows, his arm free of the blanket as he leaned over Jehan, eyelashes skimming his cheeks as he looked at him. His stomach flipped with happiness, the kind that made his toes curl together and a smile furl, uncontrollable, onto his lips. 

He found himself shifting, away from the moonlight stroking the darkened cheap furniture, the dulled sounds of a half asleep city muting as he turned away from the window. 

Courfeyrac was how he’d conjured him in his mind, but he’d always forget just how bright his eyes could shine, or just how much he loved to kiss the corner of his mouth that would press inwards as he smiled. A few freckles spanned his nose from the sun that day, and even when all colours were leaked dark and hazy by the night, his eyes still seemed to glow warm and brown. 

Marius gave a loud snore, and it set them both sniggering. 

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something.” Jehan whispered to Courfeyrac after a moment, because the words felt like they should be hushed with so little noise around them, words he’d held secured in his heart for a long while because for one of the first times he’d been too scared.

“Mm?” Courfeyrac murmured, eyes still fixed on his and Jehan felt like he was shining when he looked at him like that, like he was something that stood out in a grey, old and somehow still beautiful city.

“Yesterday,” Jehan exhaled, seeing his breath almost imperceptibly stirring Courfeyrac’s hair, and revelled that he was close enough for that to occur, “Well, I suppose it was two days ago now. You said some wonderful things- that is, I wanted to say,” He broke off, feeling his face heat, wondering how he could put sprawling perfect words on paper but so  
less frequently in speech. Courfeyrac watched him, waiting, that restless animation that warmed his eyes and lit his smiles draped across his features now. And Jehan barely had to take a breath before he spoke the words he’d never imagined saying in the darkened room of another person’s flat, hearing the faint wheeze of sleeping breaths and the muted noise of rushing cars outside, but it was perfect, far more perfect than anything else he might have imagined. 

“I love you.” He finally said simply.

Courfeyrac didn’t respond immediately, didn’t voice whatever was on his mind as he lay there, his face all but centimetres away as their bodies slotted against one another, knees and arms meeting, contours of his body that Jehan’s mind and touch knew so well now. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to as Jehan watched a smile light his face, curling his lips and creasing the skin at the edge of his eyes. A smile was usually on Courfeyrac’s face, Jehan had noted from their many years of knowing one another. He was naturally bright and reminiscent of a warm summer’s day, but Courfeyrac when he utterly and genuinely _beamed_ was something else entirely. And Jehan felt his heart falter as he took that look in, and couldn’t help but smile too.

“I can’t remember the exact moment I met the rest of our friends, you know?” He finally whispered, not dropping his gaze from Jehan’s as if he couldn’t look away, his voice falling soft and it was all Jehan listened to, now deaf to the city outside, “Not the exact moment. But with you I do. I remember sitting in that crummy student bar we used to hang out in before the Musain, with Marius and Bossuet, and we all must have only known each other a few days or so. And Bossuet waved Joly over and you were with him, and of course you had a mojito, and some writing on the back of your hand, and I never managed to read what it said. I don’t know how I didn’t realize you, Jehan. I was drunk and distracted, I suppose, and I was for the next few years.” He trailed off and Jehan found himself feeling warm, so warm, as if now the cold were reeling away from him, as if he were immune to it. Courfeyrac’s chest heaved gently with his next breath, “I’m so, so glad I took your hand all those weeks ago by the Seine. It feels like years ago and I think it’s because it’s right.” He paused and Jehan could have sworn he was blushing, was sure he would find his cheeks warm if he stretched his fingers forwards just a few centimetres. He did.

“I suppose.” Courfeyrac finally said, a short breath of laughter with his words, “I’m trying to say that I love you too.”

Jehan had been listening in hitched breaths, happy to have his vision blur as Courfeyrac’s words committed themselves to his memory. He’d always been keen to cry at words, at sentences that managed to twist his heart just so and these words were just for him, movements of Courfeyrac’s heart laid out for him, and they were all the more perfect for it.

Courfeyrac kept on talking after that, idle subjects and random sentences that he’d sometimes speak when they fell asleep together. The smooth rhythm of his voice, which had charmed Jehan for as long as he could remember soothed his tired eyes, and he fell asleep listening to him, one hand curled in his, and a smile on his lips.

* * *

The cold bath water was reflecting on the stained grey ceiling, white glimmering lines dancing in the sunlight of the morning. Grantaire watched its progress blearily as he sat there, immersed in the cool water to base of his ribs, somewhere between burning and shivering as he smoked the first cigarette of the day and waited for the sound of the door to his apartment opening, a sound that would mean Enjolras was back.  
He’d woken tangled in his limbs again, hazy and confused, still feeling like he’d stolen something, feeling like guilt should be crippling his movements, his words, but for some reason smiles had come somewhat easier, and Enjolras had used his gathering consciousness to press kisses to his lips, languid and gentle, the covers around them crunching with their movements and Grantaire’s heart had _hurt_.

He’d woken first, almost desperate to prove that this wasn’t still some fevered dream. He had found sprawling blonde curls and the dip of a curving shoulder that arched into the smooth line of a back was all he could see of the person he’d fallen asleep next to, arms and legs slotted together so haphazardly it had almost felt dangerously like habit.

He’d found himself laughing, the usual flood of reservations and uncertainties momentarily kept at bay as he’d lifted the pillow upwards so he could glimpse the shadow of Enjolras’s face that wasn’t buried against the mattress.

“Too early, Grantaire.” He’d said in a voice hoarse from sleep, any normal eloquence well and truly void and he’d been so painfully and beautifully _mortal_ , and the smile on Grantaire’s lips almost hurt.

“Par contraire, god of sunshine. You’ve already lit the sky with your chariot of horses, there’s no point pretending you’re still asleep.”

“ _Grantaire._ ”

Enjolras was gone now, out in the sunlight of the waking city with the sternly spoken decision of bringing back coffee and pastries from the new café down the street. And if this was the only way to ensure Grantaire woke up with the morning and ate breakfast then he was beyond agreeable. It had been random impulse that had driven him to the battered bath, and also because he’d experimentally sniffed at his skin and been rather horrified at the result.

The image of Enjolras that morning was still burnt on the back of his mind, like a bright light he’d looked at too long that now clung to his retinas. The image of him in his bed, his bed, where he’d been before, but this time there’d been no invisible wall between them, it had somehow been dismantled, _destroyed_ in a way that meant Enjolras’s fingers had been entwined in his, and sleepy kisses had been laid on his lips. Fear and uncertainty still stuttered his heart along with that crushingly over powerful feeling that made him feel like he was drowning. But perhaps the waves felt calmer today, the wind more tempered. 

Enjolras had been so _beautiful_ when he’d marched towards him last night, so angry, and Grantaire had been shaking, and whilst Enjolras’s anger so often made him find his feet, given him something to lean against, he’d instead felt reeling and upturned. And scared. But something in Enjolras’s words had soothed him despite that crushing feeling that had finally overpowered him, his words had soothed him, as tempting as they had been to reject, but then again he could never dismiss Enjolras’s words however much he would scoff and jibe.

A cool breeze prickled his skin from the open window opposite him, past a rickety shelf where he’d strung a razor and other too frequently ignored bathing items. The sun was at an angle where it managed to greet the small, dingy bathroom, just before it would rise too high over the square courtyard beyond the window that centred the tenement block, a space only filled by haphazard window boxes, curious pigeons and the washing line of the old woman opposite. 

He jumped as he heard the door open, the sound muffled through the wall and he felt his heart leap with it, his elbows pressing cold against his knees, cigarette smoke clinging to his breath.

It was all terrifyingly uncharted for him still, and the sound of Enjolras’s footsteps in his apartment only reminded him of that, and perhaps he could recall the feel of Enjolras’s grip on him, of his skin, and it set his breathing quick again, that overwhelming feeling beginning to strangle once more.

The door was ajar, so he shouldn’t really have been surprised when Enjolras appeared there. Grantaire was sitting facing the window, the bare skin of his back facing the door, and he heard Enjolras stop his movements as he seemed to actually take in what he had walked into.

“I-”

He broke off immediately, and Grantaire might have been amused as he flicked a glance over his shoulder and took in his scarlet face, but a headache had suddenly crept against his temples, and the scent of the bath oil he’d used, leftover from when Eponine would drop by to borrow his bathtub, had suddenly started to make him feel queasy. Outside, the rapid movements of a pigeon came loud, wings sounding like clapping.

“Coffee.” Enjolras finally managed to splutter out, and he hadn’t moved, was still standing at the half open door as if he had frozen there and Grantaire was trying to drag up that wall of self-preservation because he was trying so hard not to assume anything from that look in Enjolras’s eyes, and he was fucking shaking again.

“Careful,” He finally said, fixing his eyes on Enjolras over his shoulder, and his voice was levelled and calm and completely contrasting the way his insides were twisting, “I smell like lavender or whatever the fuck is in this bath oil.”

Enjolras’s eyes were fixed on his, almost determinedly, and that was making his hands tremble, 

“I didn’t realize you had a bathtub.” He finally mumbled, and he was still standing there, as if he felt he should go but something was holding him back,

“This apartment has a lot of wonderful things, thank you.” Grantaire replied, aiming at casualness, but there was only so much casualness to be summoned when Enjolras was standing at the doorway, and he was completely naked, albeit it half submerged in lavender scented water.

Enjolras was silent for a moment, as if his mind was working, and it seemed to come as a relief to both of them when he finally responded, tones almost normal.

“A severe quantity of rubbish, for example.” 

“Oh, _scurrilous._ ” 

“You need to stop playing scrabble with Jehan.” 

They froze again, Grantaire still looking round at him, the cigarette lying between two fingers, sunlight in the corner of his eyes and Enjolras looking back, uncertain still, awkward hesitation strung around them. 

“The water’s cold.” He heard himself saying pointlessly and Enjolras shifted, as if he’d made to move forwards but then had held himself back. His lips quirked in an almost smile at his words and Grantaire watched him, wondering if Enjolras could read just how much he wanted him to step forwards, and just how scared he was that he might walk away, scared of what he was thinking, of what he surely must be thinking of what he saw.

The exact moment when Enjolras finally stepped into the room was slightly lost on Grantaire, whose head was then reeling as Enjolras knelt down beside him, chest pushed against the edge of the bath as he leant forwards to press a kiss to his cheek, and some semblance of life ebbed into him at the touch, and he leant forwards to tangle a tentative hand in his hair, their noses touching, soft breathing loud.

His skin was cold and clammy against Enjolras, who was warm and fresh from outside and the water rocked against him, slapping his skin as he moved closer, the ceiling shimmering and his senses full of tobacco, that strong lavender scent and Enjolras before him, Enjolras, who he could glimpse was darting quick looks to him, as if to ask if this was ok, and Grantaire could almost laugh at that, because really he felt as if _he_ should be asking that question.

His hand moved down and ended tangled in Enjolras’s long fingers, his grip tight as the air moving in through the window fell cold on his wet skin and Enjolras gave a small intake of breath, shifting on his knees slightly, a leg brushing against the bath edge.

Grantaire’s hands were still trembling, and perhaps they always would with Enjolras like this before him, like some stolen image that was never meant for him. But he managed pull away slightly, to stub the cigarette out on the corner of the bath, Enjolras’s eyes fixed on him still, the sunlight playing on his eyelashes and a hand just below his jaw, a thumb absently tracing the hints of unshaven skin. The water lit and danced on the ceiling, bright, and Enjolras’s was _gleaming_ , gleaming like the ideas that danced in his head, strands of hair caught in the light and his skin glowing in the sunshine, and Grantaire tilted his head to kiss him as gently as he could as if perhaps he might disappear at any second. 

He wasn’t exactly expecting the low, frustrated noise Enjolras made in the back of his throat, something like a sigh that sent a soft vibration along his skin, and his eyelashes brushed against Grantaire’s cheek and then he was sitting up, moving until Grantaire realised he was taking his shoes off, hauling bare feet over the edge of the bath until he was sitting before him, Grantaire’s hair still entwined between his long fingers. And he leant down to kiss him again, fingers skimming along the bare line of a collarbone. 

“- _god_.” Grantaire pulled away, eyes darting downwards, looking away from Enjolras’s face and instead accidentally lighting on the bare foot by his knee, Enjolras’s bare foot, and the strangling feeling had risen again and his hands came down to drape about his front, an act of hiding and trying to find some purchase in the way his hand gripped at his arm, knuckles whitening painfully.

And Enjolras was saying his name softly, saying it like the sure words he so often spoke and his gentle hands were tilting his chin upwards again and Grantaire met that gaze that was so often steely or disdainful, but was now calm and _tender_ and perhaps determined in another way. And he looked so ridiculously, fiercely beautiful as he sat on the edge of that chipped bath, sunlight entwined in his features and the breeze from the open window stirring his hair. His lips looked red and full and a faint blush was across his cheeks, and he was warm colours with blue-tinged eyelids and piercing blue irises and he was saying his name again and again and Grantaire’s head was reeling.

Which was probably why he reached heedlessly up and closed his hands around Enjolras’s shoulders, thin fabric warm from his skin as he pulled him forwards, dragging him down towards him.

One of Enjolras’s hands came up, slapping against the tiled wall as he fell with what sounded like an amalgamation of a muffled oath and a laugh, his chest hitting against Grantaire’s as he slipped down into the water, droplets hitting upwards into their eyes, temporarily freeing Grantaire from his frozen, rushing thoughts, and he sniggered slightly before Enjolras’s hair brushed against his temple and he realized the actual implications of his movements, their new proximity knocking into him like a hit to the face, as if the small displacement of water had been a wave, staggering him and setting him lurching.

And blindly grabbing him had probably been a poor idea of sorts on reflection, as now Enjolras was currently _sitting_ on him, his skin impossibly warm as cold water pressed against them and Grantaire was _shaking_ again, waiting for Enjolras to pull away and his own mouth was already open with something that might have been an apology before Enjolras moved forwards and crushed any words with his lips.

His hand left the wall and tangled in Grantaire’s hair, wet from the tiles, and those full lips were smiling as Enjolras gently kissed him again, and then whispered something that Grantaire was sure he had misheard, but it had certainly sounded unmistakable, Enjolras’s free fingers tracing the line of Grantaire’s hip and it felt like Enjolras was unsteady too.

“I didn’t know you had a tattoo there.”

Perhaps it was the coldness of the water, or the sure warmth on his skin from the sunlight, the way it lit soft yellow circles against his wet eyelashes, or perhaps even the heat of Enjolras against him, but he felt _anchored_ as the cold water around him swilled, stable as he leaned forwards, his shoulders curling forwards as he rested against Enjolras, working small kisses over his lips, the line of his jaw, lavender and cigarettes lost as Enjolras furled somehow both gently and overwhelmingly across his senses like filtering warm sunlight.

Enjolras’s weight might have been uncomfortable, and the press of his legs was certainly ridiculously disarming, and as his own wet hands traced upwards along fabric darkening from water, Grantaire reflected that they really were making out in a fucking _bathtub_.

So quietly he might have missed it if every movement of his wasn’t filling his senses, Enjolras gave a low gasp, lips parting, and any semblance of control left Grantaire completely, and self-consciousness seemed to drown in that misted bath water as Enjolras’s hands traced more of his skin, tentative and asking, eyelashes and strands of hair ignited with water drops from their movements, and Grantaire could no long feel the cold.

Enjolras gently lifting him upwards sent Grantaire light headed, impossibly so and he stumbled against him as they clambered from the water, immune to dripping cold liquid that clung their hair to their faces and Enjolras’s clothes to his skin, feet skidding slightly on the drenched floor. And Enjolras was making low noises in the back of his throat as his hands moved light across Grantaire’s skin, so much of Grantaire’s skin, and he found he couldn’t shrink away, strangling fear drowned just for now with that smile curving Enjolras’s bruised lips.

“Enjolras.” He heard himself say, and heard the hoarse drag of his voice, and the name fell both calming and set his heart hammering in his chest, and he was sure Enjolras could hear its movements, could remember feeling Enjolras’s heartbeat with rain-soaked clothes, and it was Enjolras’s clothes that were dripping this time, and Grantaire moved a hesitant hand forwards, reaching at the hem of his sodden t-shirt, breathless and dizzy with what he was doing, what they were doing.

Their fingers hit together as that wet t-shirt rose up off damp skin, abandoned on the floor as they moved blindly backwards and Grantaire’s hands now found soft, smooth muscle and his breathing was coming shaking and harsh now, throat closing and eyes stinging. And Enjolras said his name again, some letters clicking on his tongue and the rest lost in a breath, and Grantaire pressed against him, dizzy and lost and yet somehow utterly moored.

He probably hit his head against the wall when they finally found the mattress, and his breathing was hitched and high and he was sure he was only staying afloat by the hands entangled in those long, fair curls, or the brief glimpses of pale, wet eyelashes and eyes caught in the sun, eyes not filled with disdain, or disgust, no trace of it on those perfect features that Grantaire’s lips could not bear to leave.

And Enjolras’s breathing came quick and hurried too, gasps filling Grantaire’s ears when clothing was finally lost and they reached for one another, fingers set fumbling, sparks igniting along Grantaire’s veins, and Enjolras’s skin was soft and hot, as if he were aflame and Grantaire felt he was on fire too, bath water slipping to sweat.

Enjolras’s lips broke away from his as he let out one quick, shuddering breath, and Grantaire looked up at him through eyes blown wide, taking in the curls that stroked his face, twisting down towards him, hair half wet from Grantaire’s hand, taking in his swollen lips, his mouth open as he breathed harshly, breath hot on Grantaire’s skin. His gaze met his, as if he were taking in Grantaire too, framing him as he lay over him. And there was a glint in his eyes, hooded lids and blown pupils somehow holding some sort of unwavering and admiring appraisal and Grantaire wanted to bury his lips to the smooth line of his neck to hide from it, flinching away from it by habit. But something in him kept him there, kept his gaze trapped in Enjolras’s as they moved together and when Enjolras ducked his head low to work his lips over the skin at Grantaire’s throat he _groaned_ , toes curling and the brief flash of sky through the window to his right telling him that right now, if he so wanted, he could fly on wings. 

He trapped Enjolras’s lips again between his as their movements grew more desperate, breathing erratic and heaving until their open mouths were simply moving against one another, kissing abandoned. And he screwed his eyes shut as impossible heat flared throughout him, ecstasy crashing down on him with unbearable force, his heartbeat not contained to his chest and the same name breathed out on his lips that he had been spinning in his mind like a mantra, and when Enjolras followed he shakily breathed Grantaire’s name into his ear as if it were some secret, and he his only confidant. 

He couldn’t say how long they lay there afterwards, foreheads pressed together and hair tangled, tickling skin, chests slowly evening as the sounds of the city outside began to ebb once more to their ears. Grantaire’s hand was clinging to Enjolras’s back, as if he were desperately trying to prove to himself that he was there, that the heavy, warm weight of him was _him_ , and perhaps his full and disbelieving heart wasn’t slowing as his throat stung, eyes blurring no matter how hard he blinked and he was glad to hold Enjolras there so he wouldn’t see those infuriating, silent tears.

But then Enjolras shifted, looking down at him, his nose touching his with the whisper of eyelashes against Grantaire’s skin, and the air was hot and sweet, and Enjolras’s voice was hoarse when he spoke his name, so differently to how he’d voiced it moments ago.

“Grantaire.”

“I’m okay.” He heard himself whispering back, voice unsteady, wondering why in hell he’d chosen those false words and wondering when he’d felt less mediocre. He was sure his blood was still on fire, his head flung up amongst the barely there clouds over Paris, and Enjolras was still pressed against him, draped over him, an exhaustion swathing their limbs, so far from the melancholic exhaustion that had dragged at Grantaire for so long. And he was _crying_ and desperately trying not to.

Through the twisted sheets and their entwined bodies, Enjolras’s hand freed itself, fingers coming up to stroke splayed curls from Grantaire’s brow, tracing the line of an eyebrow and following the curve of his face. And Grantaire let him, didn’t flinch away from the focus on his features, blinking furiously.

As if he was going to talk, Enjolras made a noise low in his throat, before falling silent again. The noise came out strangled and odd, and for some reason Grantaire found it shattering any crushing sensation, and tears were still stinging his eyes, but Grantaire heard gasping laughter escape his lips too, and perhaps it was a little hysterical, but it was  
certainly cathartic.

Enjolras didn’t look away from him at this new reaction, studying him as his chest moved with laughter, his own body moving slightly from the contact. And then after a second his lips, full and swollen from Grantaire’s, lifted into a cautious smile. The sun had risen, and it caught in Grantaire’s eyes as he looked at Enjolras, laughter making his head dizzy, sweat sheathing his skin and his heartbeat erratic. And there was a painfully terrifying happiness that had swelled in his heart, as he took in the warm flush on Enjolras’s skin, the way fair eyelashes framed those intelligent eyes, the way their bodies were still clasped together from chest to toes and the way he was smiling back at him, breathing still quick and hair mussed from tangled fingers.

Enjolras’s hand found his, warm fingers gripping his tightly and Grantaire still felt his hands trembling as he grasped blindly at him.

“We forgot about the coffee.” Grantaire finally said, all that his muddled mind could issue. And Enjolras faced him with one of his more intense looks that clearly stated he couldn’t have cared less. The intense look, that saw burning eyes centimetres from his made Grantaire’s skin creep towards blazing again. He shifted slightly, torturously, as their limbs moved together, and was reminded of hot slickness and felt his heart pick up movement again. 

“I think,” Enjolras said slowly, an ounce of his old commanding tone seeping back into his voice, “That we need to reutilize the bathtub.” 

And Grantaire smiled quietly, reaching up to steal a kiss before they moved, thinking that when he looked back on this, and he would for as long as the human condition kept time, remembering that thrum of his body’s contented tiredness as proof, and he’d think of this as gold and yellow and red. Bright colours that hurt to recollect, hurt his heart so wonderfully, the best colours of all. 

Enjolras’s hand stayed grasped his as they moved, the sun still following them, and Grantaire entertained the well-trodden thought as cold water soothed his eyes once more that Paris had two suns that morning. And he wasn’t in the habit of noticing, but a small part of him felt like it was shining too.

* * *

“It is a _word._ ” Bahorel was saying with air of a man trying to maintain some scrap of crumbling dignity.

Bossuet, not for the first time that Sunday afternoon, felt himself regretting the idea of the scrabble game they’d started in the café where Courfeyrac was working until five thirty. 

They’d dragged mismatched chairs over to the long windows that had been opened for the warm sunshine, armchairs framing their view onto the Place Saint-Michel outside. Paris was calm that afternoon, the traffic sluggish and the people unhurried. They’d sat there for the best part of the afternoon, Combeferre, Enjolras, Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, Jehan and Grantaire, the former two double-checking the terms of the permit for the protest while the rest of them people-watched, attempted lecture notes, and, from the last fifteen minutes or so, played a brutal game of scrabble that they’d found stacked on the wooden shelves that were decorated with coffee mugs and grayscale photographs of the city. 

“You’ve spelt it wrong.” Combeferre told him as he looked over from his chair at the coffee table they’d heaped the playing board onto amid scattered coursebooks and cups. “It’s also rather rude.”

“This is the last, desperate attempt of someone who is losing at a _stupid game_.” Bahorel muttered, reaching for his coffee mug, “Can I get a point for my great dress sense?”

“Erm…no.”

Bossuet’s phone buzzed on the table then, and he reached for it, only slopping a slight about of tea onto his jeans as he read the resulting message. He missed Jehan sympathetically awarding Bahorel ten points on the tally sheet he was in charge of. 

“Marius said he’s on his way with Cosette,” Bossuet informed them after he’d read the text, hashing out a quick reply and a smiley face, “Did you say Eponine was free, Combeferre?” 

He didn’t really think through singling Combeferre out with that question, and felt a little bad when Combeferre went scarlet, and Jehan giggled.

“She might come by later.” He said after a deliberate sip of coffee. 

Joly broke the following, implying silence by laying down the word ‘muzjiks’ which caused uproar again.

“It’s a word.” Combeferre’s voice cut softly through Bahorel’s howls of indignation that was starting to make other customers glance over at them.

“How did you know that?” Bossuet asked Joly blankly, looking at his own letters, which were tragically short of vowels.

“I texted Feuilly.” Joly shrugged, reaching for his cup of herbal tea, and sending Bossuet a smile, “Even when working he’s great with Eastern European terms to support a person with unsatisfying letters.” 

He still looked pale from yesterday, Bossuet considered. 

Joly was strong, he was _so_ strong in Bossuet’s opinion. But there were days when his bright smiles were dulled, and days when he was scared. And yesterday had been one of them. 

Of course, them staying out late with the rainstorm that Friday night had been stupid, and Bossuet hadn’t been particularly surprised when he’d woken with a mild cold that came from a wet night and a little too much alcohol. But Joly had woken with a cough that came rasping and hoarse, and Bossuet had known from the look on his face that this was a day when Joly’s so cheerful demeanour would crumble, and he would be afraid.

They’d gone to the doctors, of course, and by then Joly breaths were quick, certain of an unnatural fatigue and Bossuet had held his hand as they’d sat in that stuffy waiting room and had hated it for him.

Doctor’s words never dispelled anything, but Joly had been calmer later when they’d gone back to their apartment and Bossuet had built up their bed with the duvet from Jehan’s room. They’d stayed there all day, Bossuet with the laptop and the reading glasses he felt he’d soon need all the time, tackling an essay, and Joly curled up quietly beside him, half-dozing, eyes lidded and a smallness draping him that was so out of place with his normal countenance. Bossuet would find himself reaching over occasionally, brushing fingers against his forehead, or gripping his hand as if he could make Joly strong again through the contact of warm skin. Musichetta had dropped by during her work break with a bouquet of flowers and a kiss on the cheek for Joly, and Bossuet had thought that whilst Joly had faced this for so long, he’d didn’t have to face it alone anymore, and that had to count for something.

He’d expected Joly to decline Courfeyrac’s invitation to head to the Musain in the evening, had been ready to get tinned spaghetti in for supper, and tweak the heating, but Joly had sat up, running a hand through tousled hair and had quietly said he’d like to go out before heading off to the shower. 

He was stronger today, Bossuet could see it in his eyes, the genuine smiles, even if he still looked tired. He reached across now and took Joly’s hand, and Joly looked back at him, a small smile on his lips as he mouthed, ‘I’m fine.’ 

“If we’re accepting other languages why couldn’t I use 'YOLO' on Jehan’s turn earlier?” Courfeyrac asked as he bundled himself on the arm of a sofa, a dishcloth still in his hand.

“That question just answered itself.” Jehan told him. “Is there any cake left?” 

“Anyway,” Joly broke in, tone innocently inquiring, although the grin on his face was rather contradictory, “I believe the ‘z’ is on the double letter square? That’s thirty-nine points, then, if I’m not mistaken?”

Jehan dutifully recorded his score as Grantaire leant forwards to put a few tiles down, from the point just past the windows where he’d placed himself in order to smoke. His tiles ended spelling the word ‘scurrilous.’ He found it exceedingly amusing for some reason, and at his laughter Enjolras looked over, taking in the word he’d made before seeming to fight a smile. Bossuet wondered if the others had noticed the new fondness in Enjolras’s eyes when he looked at Grantaire. He also wondered if any of them had noticed they’d appeared to have been holding hands when they had all met up that afternoon. It had made him smile, but Bossuet had said nothing. Enjolras and Grantaire’s relationship had always appeared tumultuous to him, and any added pressure on their friends’ behalf over something that really, Bossuet considered, had been a long time coming, was perhaps not the best thing. His other contemplation was that he’d wished they’d waited until the new year, so as to save him ten euros. But that was neither here nor there. 

“That’s only twelve points, Grantaire.” Jehan told him regretfully, before clambering to his feet to head over to the cake display by the counter. Courfeyrac trailed after him, a hand brushing the small of his back before he headed over to beam at new customers, as if he hadn’t just been sitting with his friends instead of serving them. 

“I know,” Grantaire announced, even though Jehan had left, stretching his arms high above his head, still grinning at Enjolras, whose ears had now turned rather pink, “But it was very worth it. Where’s the bag of letters?” 

They waited until Jehan returned with a slice of cake and a glass bottle of the raspberry lemonade he coveted here, that he frequently told them in a fond, soft voice reminded him of the south when the lavender fields blossomed in mid-June.

“You both smell of lavender.” He’d informed Grantaire and Enjolras when they’d arrived that afternoon.

Sunlight was falling across Bossuet’s arm, and he turned to look past Joly out into the square. The light had moved onwards, beginning to dip low and cast the buildings along the converging streets in warm, cooling light. Bossuet always loved the last flare of light the sun would make in summer, before it disappeared. 

March was ending, days drawing out, summer beginning to flood through the city as April approached. The trees along the Boulevard Saint-Michel had bloomed vivid green, and would yellow with the summer sun until autumn came around once more and the leaves would twist and die and fall. Tulips would blossom orange and white across the Champs des Mars. Streetlights would no longer come on with dreary grey afternoons but light up warm, balmy nights and they’d all sit in cafés where doors would be opened on habit and not out of surprise. They’d drink iced coffee and lemonade, and laze in the shade of the Luxembourg Gardens on hot afternoons. Summer would eventually cause momentary separation as university ground to a halt, but Bossuet held no pretence that he was going to be spending a lot of his time at Joly’s. And perhaps this year they’d all actually manage to come together for a weekend. Bossuet hoped it would be in the south, along the coast where the ice cream and warm, blue waters had always held a certain charm.

He tuned out of the game as he watched Joly taking steady sips of tea, laughing at Bahorel’s protests of game rules and occasionally glancing over to see how Combeferre and Enjolras were getting on, and Bossuet let himself feel glad for the fact that they had no plans tonight, and he and Joly could have the evening to themselves, could lean against one another on the sofa with a laptop perched on their legs and watch one of the terrible films Joly loved to laugh at. Perhaps he could go by the Carrefour on their way home to buy ice cream.

He’d lost track of the game’s progression, lulled by warm thoughts. But he was snapped back to it rather unceremoniously when Jehan laid down ‘syzygy,’ and the game abruptly ended with Bahorel turning the board over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *awkward cough* 
> 
> FUN FACT: my dad was fixing something on my laptop and this was open in the corner of the screen the whole time and I didnt realize until later aND ILL JUST LET YOU GUESS WHICH BIT IT WAS 
> 
> ugh everybody we are nearing the end this is really sad :C
> 
> in other news I made [a thing](http://icarus-drunk.tumblr.com/post/60561904926/ok-so-i-got-an-anon-asking-about-all-the-places-i) on request that marks a few of the places in Paris these dorks hang out at yay  
> As always come say hi on [tumbleurgh](http://icarus-drunk.tumblr.com) (no seriously do it's so lovely to hear from people :3)


	14. There is never any end to Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There is never any ending to Paris and the memory of each person who has lived in it differs from that of any other. We always returned to it no matter who we were or how it was changed or withwhat difficulties, or ease, it could be reached. Paris was always worth it and you received return for whatever you brought to it. But this is how Paris was in the early days when we were very poor and very happy."

The mid April sun was shining through the high placed window of the art studio when Enjolras pushed the door open, the cardboard coffee holder with its two paper cups tipping slightly in his spare hand as he did so. 

The room smelt as it always did, powerfully of turpentine and oil paints, as well as the cigarettes Grantaire and Feuilly smoked as discreetly as possible whenever the room was empty, or simply devoid of a member of staff.

Grantaire was over by the window, the back of his dark curls facing Enjolras as he bent before a canvas, humming under his breath. The phone Enjolras had called him on half an hour ago to ask if he was free was discarded on a table by the window, among sketchbooks and paintbrushes and twisted tubes of paint.

Enjolras had found himself memorizing the meticulous expression Grantaire wore when he was painting, the way his teeth would bite down on his lower lip, and the way quick   
dismissiveness would jump into his words when he caught him looking. But he couldn’t see that look now, with Grantaire turned away.

The only other person in the room was a girl listening to music that was echoing muffled from a pair of headphones, as she plastered kitchen roll to an oddly shaped cardboard sculpture. Enjolras had learnt from looking around this studio that art seemed to have a rather extensive definition. 

Grantaire looked over his shoulder when the door shut, a cigarette in his mouth and a streak of blue paint brushed across one side of his face. Enjolras had come to associate the heavy smell of acrylic with him, from stained fingertips that had pressed against his face and tangled in his hair.

“I sing of the arms and of the man who comes bearing coffee.” Grantaire grinned, teeth glinting rather ridiculously around the cigarette, “What literary perfection Virgil missed for not seeing what I do now.”

Enjolras didn’t think he’d ever be sure if Grantaire was mocking or complimenting him when he spoke like that, and simply gave him an exasperated smile as he stepped forwards, the door swinging shut behind him. Grantaire watched his progress, a grin still tugging at the corners of his lips, but his eyes were lidded in some appreciative way that made Enjolras’s heart stutter.

“How’s your painting going?” He asked, as he pressed the cup with its requested three sugars into Grantaire’s free hand, purely to feel the way his warm fingers brushed his, some novelty he didn’t think he’d ever grow accustomed to. Grantaire waved a free arm in a dismissive gesture, his eyes never leaving Enjolras’s face.

“It is a poor excuse for a painting, but it’s a painting nonetheless. That should please an exam board.” His eyes roved Enjolras’s face, as if perhaps he were trying to decide the exact shade of his skin in the late morning light, and his eyes were glittering in the manner that seemed to hint he was enjoying some private joke. His fingers moved, and stopped halfway to reaching for him. 

“It is almost unfair how striking you still appear with that black eye of yours.” He finally mused, and the smile on his face slipped a moment, before reappearing, a small breath escaping his lips as if he were laughing at himself. 

Enjolras hoped the extent of his eye roll at his words was sufficient. The blue, almost faded bruising that framed his left eye, the work of a drunken student, was the only remaining evidence from the otherwise, mostly positively received protest a few Saturdays ago. The commonness of it distressed him, the ridiculousness in the face of what they’d been there for sending white hot anger through him. But he pushed the mottled bruising and all it symbolized to the back of his mind at Grantaire’s expression. 

There was an unease that still settled about Enjolras when Grantaire looked at him like that, _because_ Grantaire still looked at him like that. He’d notice it now and again, far too frequently for his comfort. Moments when he’d look up from something he was reading, Grantaire on the sofa beside him, their legs brushing, or moments across a room, through surrounding company. It was an almost consternating look in his eyes, he looked at him as if perhaps he had a limited time to, and that look kept Enjolras up at night, when Grantaire slept beside him, warm skin against his. It had been a look that had faded in frequency as the months had passed, but it was still there, and Enjolras had seen the expression in Grantaire’s eyes, as if he was still doubting, and all Enjolras could do was wait, and pull him closer at night and tell him the unwavering strength of what lay in his heart in the day.

Grantaire turned now, paintbrush reaching for the palette he’d laid nearby on a low surface. He seemed to be shielding Enjolras’s eyes from the canvas as he began work on it again, a tautness to his shoulders as if he were somehow embarrassed of it.

Enjolras moved back unconsciously, resting against a table piled with blank sheets of paper, coffee mostly forgotten by his side as he watched Grantaire’s profile, taking in the dark curling hair and the strokes of the face that he’d woken up beside for the past two weeks.

It had been an agreed yet never worded thing, them sleeping together every night. Some nights, they’d be walking along the streets together, fuelled by angry debate, and find   
themselves at the door to one of their tenement blocks, entering without a second thought and only pausing for a moment when they found themselves in a darkened apartment. Other nights Grantaire would appear at Enjolras’s door, sometimes tipsy, sometimes with smiles that seemed too large to be meant, or sometimes just the side of him that looked at him tenderly, and made sarcastic quips as Enjolras pulled him towards the bed, as Enjolras feigned impatience and tried to hide his grin.

Some nights, when they reached his front door, Enjolras held out his hand, and Grantaire took it. 

The mornings had found some ritual too, in-between their variations. Enjolras had days where he’d left Grantaire in his bed, a thought that made him light-headed as he rushed to a lecture with hair still mussed from sleep, or Grantaire’s fingers. Sometimes, with groggy eyes, rumpled clothes and unwashed hair, Grantaire would eat some of the cereal Courfeyrac had once slipped into Enjolras’s cupboard, the clatter of a spoon against a china bowl the soundtrack to gathering light, accompanied with the rustle of the newspaper Enjolras would scan. He’d look up to find Grantaire watching him, a smile pulling his lips. He’d find himself smiling too.

There was a new kind familiarity that draped itself about Grantaire now, that came from his heightened presence. It slipped between the foreignness of it all, of Grantaire in his bed, of leaning over to brush his fingers through his hair, of arguments ended in kisses. Enjolras could only suppose it was the new familiarity that came from sleeping next to someone, of having someone be so constant; to feel his cold feet, the warmth of his laughter and hear the sound of his breathing, to feel the way unshaven skin rasped against his skin when he kissed him in the mornings.

And this was so new to Enjolras, so _terrifyingly_ new, to feel this way about someone, feelings he simply hadn’t thought he’d ever feel, so diverted and distracted as he had been, as he was. It was all untrodden to him, the touches to his skin, the kisses placed on his lips, simply sitting on a battered settee with Grantaire. But the familiarity of it still, impossibly, existed, and it warmed his chest like a light that had grown brighter in navy blue darkness, a flare that had sparked into wildfire. And whilst so much of it wasn’t easy, whilst there were things that went misunderstood and missed between them, so much about it worked, to a point where Enjolras couldn’t imagine waking without Grantaire there beside him, any fear of insufficiency and any feeling of instability both prominent and somehow absent with Grantaire.

He took in the swirling lines Grantaire was making with the brush, a dark landscape twisting out of the canvas, colours that Grantaire’s eyes saw, patterns and habits of scenes that Enjolras somehow always overlooked. But perhaps he’d been noticing them more nowadays.

He’d asked a question he’d never quite summoned the courage to ask before he’d even thought on it properly.

“Have you ever drawn me?”

Grantaire’s cigarette was still between his lips, and he smiled slightly around it with his gaze still fixed on the canvas, something glittering in his eyes that Enjolras couldn’t quite read. He didn’t reply.

“Sorry.” Enjolras muttered. “That came out strangely.”

“Don’t we all?” Grantaire asked in the false musing tone he sometimes used to go off on philosophical debate, and Enjolras couldn’t help laughing at that, and Grantaire faltered slightly, his smile slipping into some pensive expression as he looked at him.

He was quiet a moment, and had reached for the palette filled with paint before he spoke again.

“Courfeyrac phoned a minute or so ago.” He said, an arm waving out to indicate the phone lying on the table. His movements were always quick and expressive, fingers spread and hands moving, just one more thing Enjolras had taken so long, too long to notice properly. “I said I was hanging out with you. I think we’re actually breaking him, you know?”

“Hm?”

“I’m guessing you haven’t told him?” The look Grantaire sent him was slightly cautious, “I haven’t, I mean. I...” He trailed off and flicked his eyes back to the canvas, as if he were studying it critically. There was a restlessness about him now, as his fingers moved against the palette, legs shifting slightly, “I mean, if you didn’t want to tell anyone, I guess I understand-”

“I told Combeferre.” Enjolras broke in, his voice a little harsher than he had intended, in his hurry to dispel what Grantaire was implying, “That is, he asked me a few days ago, and I told him.”

“Ah,” Grantaire still wasn’t looking at him, “Well, you didn’t have to tell him the truth. It’s not like you owe me anything.”

“You are impossible sometimes.” Enjolras told him hotly, and the girl behind them coughed. He took a measured breath, taking in the way Grantaire was still focused on the painting, even if his eyes weren’t moving, and he was gripping the palette in a way that made his knuckles white. He glanced over his shoulder at the girl determinedly layering kitchen towel onto her model, and took a step closer to Grantaire.

“Can we go outside a minute?”

Grantaire’s lips worked together as he set the brush and palette down, a hand almost unconsciously reaching for his hair, oblivious to the paint on his fingers. But he turned towards Enjolras and sent him a weak smile, gesturing for him to head towards the door first. Enjolras hesitated only a moment before reaching for his hand, ignoring Grantaire’s murmurs about acrylic paint as he twined his fingers about his. 

The street outside the art block was busy, buses and motorcycles moving past on the roads, a whirring silence left when there was a gap in the traffic. Sunshine was filtering in between the new leaves that adorned the trees, shadows on the pavements reeling as the branches swayed in a lazy breeze. Enjolras led Grantaire unthinkingly down a street to their right, where the buildings seemed taller in their closeness, black iron balconies glinting just before the sun failed to touch them. A few shops littered the ground floors, motorcycles parked before them haphazardly.

They kept walking until they reached the boulevard at the end of the street, a bottle green presse stand shining in the light over the road before a row of old buildings, and Enjolras’s vision was filled by whites, greens and greys, shades of Paris he’d come to take note of because of the person beside him with paint-stained fingers.

“What is it?” Grantaire asked quietly when they’d both drawn simultaneously to an awkward halt. He sank against the railing bordering the road from the pavement, near a chained bicycle, and crushed his cigarette beneath his shoe. He looked tired again, Enjolras thought.

“What…” Enjolras exhaled loudly and sank down next to him, back to the streaming traffic, ignoring the city as he looked at Grantaire, who was busy playing with his hands. His feet scuffing against the pavement. “I feel I should be asking you that.”

Grantaire shrugged, sunlight glinting on the dark curls at the back of his head, fingers toying with the knees of his jeans.

“Should I not have told Combeferre?” Enjolras pressed, brows lowering as he tried to decipher the set of Grantaire’s shoulders, and Grantaire gave a breathless, humourless laugh.

“Tell the world, Enjolras, _please_. It’s just,” He bit his lip, one eye screwing shut as he pulled the words forwards, “I didn’t know how far you wanted to take this. I didn’t know if you wanted to tell anyone.”

Enjolras looked at him, feeling he’d be struck as he processed that, wondering how there was so much he’d missed, how there was so much he always seemed to miss. Frustration lit hot along his veins, a frustration at himself.

“I never thought about it.” Enjolras confessed, ignoring the curls of hair that were playing across his temples as he frowned at Grantaire’s tightly entwined fingers, “I didn’t know how to, I mean… _god_ I’m ridiculous.”

Grantaire laughed again, that same humourless laugh that seemed directed at himself, that made Enjolras want to press him close.

“This was never a mistake, Grantaire.” He told him, summoning the voice he’d use in debates and rallies, a voice that brooked no room for doubt as he reached forwards and gripped one of Grantaire’s hands in his. “I haven’t been thinking about this properly. And I’m sorry. Would you like us to tell our friends?”

“Whatever you want-”

“No.” Enjolras said fiercely and Grantaire looked at him at the harsh sound of his voice. He turned to look at him and Enjolras was reminded of a night along the river, the Seine below them as they sat on Pont Royal, and Grantaire had closed the space between their lips, “No, I want to know what _you_ want.”

Grantaire studied him, eyes moving over the curls still playing across his vision, taking in the firm set of his lips, and what he hoped was an unyielding look in his eyes.

“I’d like that.” Grantaire finally sighed, tension easing out of his body as he dropped his gaze from Enjolras’s, the hint of a smile, a genuine one this time, curling his lips, one of those genuine smiles that twisted Enjolras’s heart. 

“We’ll tell them then.” Enjolras said stoutly, getting to his feet, “Courfeyrac suggested a takeout at his flat tonight, so then. Is that ok?”

“‘Ok’?” Grantaire repeated weakly, taking Enjolras’s outstretched hand and clambering upwards, “Yeah, I think so.”

Enjolras considered his expression a moment, and Grantaire sent him a small grin, half hesitant, half self-mocking. 

“I want to do this right.” Enjolras told him sternly, his hand still in Grantaire’s, his skin warm against his, a warmth he’d never considered feeling from another person. “And I know I can sometimes miss a few things. You have to tell me.”

Grantaire made a low noise of half-hearted agreement, and Enjolras moved forwards to close a cautious arm about his waist, half-imagining, half-feeling the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt, and he wondered if he would ever fully understand the indescribable need he had to be this close to Grantaire, to see the exact way the skin about his eyes creased as he smiled weakly at him, to take in each strand of hair that flicked almost lazily in the breeze. 

He certainly didn’t think he’d ever fully understand the thrills that shot down his back as Grantaire leant forwards into his embrace and pressed his lips to his, his breath hot and clouded by cigarettes. Surety was always something Enjolras had possessed in recent years, an unswaying certainty in so much, but with Grantaire here, kissing him, his own arm about him and hauling him close as the breeze that no longer held biting chill stirred their hair, here he felt unseated and kicked up like the leaves that would scatter along the pavements when autumn came. And he didn’t think it negative at all.

“I have a painting to finish.” Grantaire mused after a moment, his lips a little red, his cheeks flushed, “But then I’m free if you are.”

“Definitely.” 

The girl was still there when they re-entered the art room, so quiet from being separated from the bustling city outside, their fingers linked and the reeling freshness of the outside air draping them.

“Stay there.” Grantaire told him, dropping his hand from his as he headed towards the easel, leaving Enjolras paused by a steel column tacked with sketches and magazine clippings. 

“What?”

“I said, stay there, oh muse. Some male mix of Erato and Calliope. The sunlight lies particularly well on you there.”

His rambles made little sense to Enjolras until he saw him pluck his sketchbook from the nearby desk, reaching after a moment for a packet of pastels. 

“I have a black eye, Grantaire.” He pointed out, feeling his face heat a little.

“Then perhaps today you’re Ajax, or Aeneas.” Grantaire smirked, then shot him a quick look, the question in his eyes, and Enjolras sent him a resigning smile, trying to force his shoulders down. 

Grantaire flicked a look to the other student across the room, who was unwaveringly still working, before leaning over to gently crush his lips to Enjolras’s. He always kissed him like that at first, Enjolras had found. As if he were something to be revered, or he still couldn’t quite believe he was there. And perhaps Enjolras still felt disbelief that it was Grantaire’s fingers that whispered against his cheek, skimming his hair, disbelieving that this time last year his mind had been so terribly lacking with favourable thoughts for the person before him. But Grantaire had always been not far away in his mind, he considered. He’d just been appallingly slow to notice.

But life moved quickly, he considered, as Grantaire drew away with a smirk on his face and began to draw quick lines over paper, the way his long, slender fingers moved always dragging Enjolras’s attention, from when he’d first drawn beside him as they’d slumped on the sofa at Enjolras’s flat one rainy night a week or so ago. Life moved frustratingly fast, reeling along and leaving him breathless. There was a frustration in the limit of time he was granted to walk the world, a restriction of years that meant so many of his dreams might not have enough time to flower. Not that that would halt him for a moment, he knew he’d spend his life doing everything he could do, and that frustration was always something that would shroud his shoulders. Life moved quickly and he’d move with it, and if luck was his, Grantaire would be by his side. And that thought made him dizzier as he stood in that cluttered art studio, Grantaire leaning against the table before him, a grin on his face as he drew him, eye flicking up to his for far longer than he probably needed for the paper before him. And Enjolras couldn’t really help the smile that began to tug at the corners of his mouth, because of this new, never-felt-before contentment that he’d been feeling these past few weeks, a contentment that was truly and utterly immersing him in for the first time.

Grantaire didn’t admonish him for the movement, and he paused slightly as he took in his expression, eyes travelling his face. And that slightly crooked grin of his widened.

* * *

Feuilly yawned so widely he thought perhaps he heard his jaw crack, clearing his throat and staring blankly at the laptop he’d placed on his chest.

It was eleven o’clock on a Tuesday, and he had work in an hour or so, and had spent the last sixty minutes he’d been awake messaging various people. His leg had fallen asleep about fifteen minutes ago, and he supposed he should probably move, except the hangover he’d given himself from a late night was debilitating any incentive to do so.

His breath felt stale from alcohol and cigarettes, his throat sore, and his eyes were still a little bleary as he looked at the bright light of the screen, ignoring the pokes Bahorel kept sending him on Facebook, in spite of his being in the next room.

_It’s your turn to make coffee._ He messaged him, before turning back to the other conversation he’d started, the duvet rustling as he crossed his legs, wondering how he’d find the will to get out of bed.

Cosette’s latest message on their Facebook chat window was blinking at him. It had been a few weeks ago when they’d sat, tipsy, on the steps outside the Musain, waiting for Bahorel, Marius, Jehan and Courfeyrac to get their coats, and had exchanged half-drunken words to alleviate whatever was resting on their hearts. And Feuilly had been rather surprised to find such similarity with Cosette, happily taken aback with the ease with which they had talked as people around them smoked and stumbled home down narrow streets. 

The world had adopted Cosette, Feuilly had learned that night, and he later supposed he had adopted the world.

They were being less musing today, and she was instead torturing him with pictures of fluffy animals from the shelter she did volunteer work at occasionally. 

He unseeingly clicked on a few of the photos Courfeyrac had taken from the night before, when they’d all crowded into the small apartment he and Marius shared up on the Rue de la Verriere. Most of them were of Courfeyrac himself, which did little to surprise him, but the rest were shots of them all, various photos when their attention was turned away and they were laughing. Tapping through them, he was met with close-ups of the freckles on Jehan's nose, Eponine with her arm around Combeferre, and Bahorel flipping off the camera. He passed one of Grantaire, pulling a stupid face at the lens, a beer bottle halfway to his lips, and then again when he hadn’t realized the camera was trained on him. His eyes were narrowed in laughter, and fixed on something out of sight, and Feuilly knew that had been where Enjolras had been sitting. That evening they’d all had to pretend they hadn’t already noticed all the lingering glances and skimming hands that had passed between them the last few weeks, all determinedly avoiding one another’s glances as they congratulated them, and forcibly suppressed the comments on the ridiculous amount of time it had taken to happen. Feuilly had decided the determined expression Enjolras had worn as he had held Grantaire’s hand, seemingly trying to ignore the shade of scarlet that had crept across his face would be something to remember whenever dejection settled on him.

“You make it.” Bahorel voice carried from the next room. Feuilly sent him one of Cosette’s cat pictures in retaliation, and thought he heard chuckling. He supposed it was fortunate Jehan had stayed over at Courfeyrac’s the previous night.

Feuilly’s room was dark, facing away from the sun that was slowly rising over Paris, and he passed a hand across his face, trying to force some energy into his body and dispel the mild headache he’d given himself. Some days dragging himself to that restaurant took all of his will, days when just for once, he wished he could relax and indulge in the beauty of doing absolutely nothing. Bahorel and Jehan would sometimes sense when he was in that mood, ambushing him with a pile of DVD’s when he came home late, or ignoring when it was his turn to wash up or clean the floor, and doing it themselves. Cosette had once plied him with enough cookies for his shift he’d spent the following five hours on a complete sugar high. He thought now he heard Bahorel open his bedroom door, the blaring noise of classical music that Feuilly couldn’t quite understand his liking for growing louder as he did so. 

He cast a look to the time, groaning when he saw that really, he should probably get up. The world wouldn’t stop demanding, even after it had taken so much, and it was a certain strength that was needed to face it sometimes, Feuilly supposed, as his feet hit the cold floor. 

He heard Bahorel cheering the climax of the concerto over the whistle of the kettle, and his laptop chimed at the new messages he was receiving.

And he didn’t have to look far to work out what that strength was.

* * *

The sun was setting over the Île Saint-Louis and the summer was ending.

Over the past few days the air in Paris had taken on a new chill, a chill that remembered how to dig to the bone, biting at exposed skin. The vivid green trees in the Luxembourg Gardens had faded, leaves dying and scattering the ground, hurtling down the pavements and roads in winds that belonged to the coming winter. Colours seemed muted, somehow, amid the new orange and pinks, and the Seine was a cold slate grey, winding as ever through the old city. 

And they were poor and happy, Grantaire reflected. 

Paint was still staining the fingers he’d shoved in woollen gloves, from the paintings he’d create with some fevered need, and he’d kickbox until his hands bruised, as if the pain could remind him that this was real, he was here and this had happened. Exhaustion would come, but then it would ebb, and after so long of lying awake for so many nights he could finally sleep.

And he was _happy._

The sun was orange that evening, an evening in ageing September. Orange as the trees lining the south bank of the Île Saint-Louis, trees also imbued with pinks and reds. The pale buildings at Grantaire’s back seemed all the more washed out for the occasional flaring colours, and he kicked the heels of his feet against the wall that they were perched on above the riverbank, a small, unconscious smile lifting his lips.

They were all there that evening, all of them sitting with the fading day, a time that somehow managed to be the most colourful and brightest part. The evenings had grown shorter now, night coming faster, even if it could never be fully dark in a city strung with lampposts and car headlights. 

The Pont de la Tournelle was to their left, slow-moving ferries passing under it, filled with the tourists who Cosette was waving at with Marius’s arm around her, and the white buildings across the river were glowing yellow as the setting sun shone on them.

Grantaire’s gloved hand was entwined in that of the person sat next to him, so close their thighs were brushing. 

“Are you aware this street is named the Quai d’Orleans?” He whispered to Enjolras, moving his lips close to his ear and not at all successful in hiding a smirk. “I’m sure you can sense the _ancien régime_ if you try hard enough.”

“It was named the Quai de l’Égalité throughout the revolution.” Enjolras told him, speaking before moving his gaze to fix on him, eyelashes glinting with the movement, a small smile turning his lips, that were pressed together with his considered verbal victory.

His hair had grown longer over the summer, and the curls about his neck lifted with the leaves that went scattering across the narrow road behind them. 

“You’re aflame.” Grantaire had told him when they’d first sat down there, the result of aimless meandering when they’d left Courfeyrac and Marius’s apartment with the desire for fresh air. Enjolras still looked somewhere between amused and exasperated when Grantaire said those kinds of things to him, eyes halfway to rolling and skin halfway to blushing. 

The summer sun had left its mark on him, Grantaire could still see; a light dusting of freckles across his nose, far more numerous than the first time he had kissed him, on that rainy night in spring. Images of Enjolras in summer played on his mind now, the sunlight in his hair as they’d sat in the Jardin des Tuileries, him smiling at some weak joke from Grantaire, who had read Enjolras’s course books, not so much for their contents, but for the notes Enjolras had scrawled in-between the printed words.

Grantaire might like autumn with its cold nights and fiery colours, but summer he would now mourn, as September washed the city in its new colours and its new biting wind that felt cool and clear.

Paris had emptied itself of their friends when May had ended, most of them heading back to their various homes, Feuilly to the north coast to stay with an aunt who had offered a roof over his head whilst he worked on the landscaping job he’d managed to get hold of. Enjolras and Grantaire had been left in Paris, because both of them were already in the only place they had ever considered home.

He’d felt ridiculously terrified the first time he’d realized Enjolras would be more than the already idyllically frequent presence that he’d slowly, somehow found himself getting used to over the past few months. His heart still hurtled when Enjolras touched him, the shaky, unbelieving feeling still creeping over him, occasionally drowning him, and the thought that there would be so little between them being alone had made some unexplainable divide between joy and terror flood through him.

And it hadn’t always passed well, those days of summer where they’d wander the streets of Paris together, or spent days in their apartments and indulged in doing nothing. There had been days when stupid words had set them on edge and hurt, days when they’d both secretly called a rather put upon Courfeyrac. 

And Grantaire was half-strong, half-destroyed next to Enjolras, and there were still the days that would catch him as they always had now and then, when he’d lie there and want to curl in on himself, when he couldn’t even bring himself to get up to reach the cigarettes and alcohol he would crave.

The first time Enjolras had seen him like that Grantaire had managed to persuade him to leave for the library talk he’d wanted to go to, amid false smiles and half-hearted sarcastic comments with half the hope that Enjolras would lose his temper and leave with no regret.

He’d probably made it halfway down the street before he turned back, letting himself in with muttered words about not caring about library lectures, and he’d settled on the bed next to him with his laptop, the soft sound of his breathing and his fingers across the keyboard the sound with which Grantaire remembered that day, sounds that were soothing to him from then on. 

There were days when they argued, days when they argued too much, days when the storm in Enjolras’s eyes, that restlessness, felt like too much. An endless stirring that would not be satisfied, Grantaire thought. Because no matter the force of light that Enjolras was, the world would never be fair or perfect. 

And those were the things that fell between them, or rather things that threatened to fall. Because there were still the nights when they’d stay awake with the stars, and let the morning sun greet them, tired and heads resting on shoulders, fingers entwined. And the world had its demons, and they had theirs, but in that morning sunlight that lit against tired eyes, those shadows couldn’t touch them.

Eponine now leant over to snatch the cigarette Grantaire had been clutching determinedly through the thick gloves, regardless of the mild ridiculousness of the sight. 

“Thievery.” He commented, and received only a wink in return as she settled back against Combeferre. His hand came up to close about her shoulder, a gentle and affectionate movement, his head ducking a moment later to press a kiss to her cheek. Eponine would still look tired to Grantaire sometimes, but perhaps she seemed a little brighter these days. 

“I think I just dropped something on that couple below us.” Bossuet whispered loudly from Enjolras’s left, peering forwards to look at the riverbank and the people seated there. Musichetta gave her loud, unapologetic laugh at that. Grantaire had grown to be enormously fond of her, with her comments and pointed looks that were almost as sharp as the winged eyeliner she wore. 

“It was your pen.” Joly confirmed, leaning forwards to check.

It was Courfeyrac who gladly swung his legs over the wall and jogged down the steps to their right to retrieve it, all smiles and laughing jokes, and the couple who had been sitting below them at the river’s edge didn’t remain irked for long, infected by that warm light Courfeyrac seemed to cast on everyone.

He swooped his arms around Cosette and Marius in a impulsive hug as he passed them, and he entwined his hand through Jehan’s as he settled down against the free stretch of wall once more, his back to the river and feet planted on the pavement, the narrow roads of the Île Saint-Louis before him. The sun was dipping lower, and Grantaire looked at Enjolras, one of those sneaking glances from underneath the rim of his lashes, the acrid smell of the cigarette Eponine was now smoking reeling over him.

The evening had set Enjolras aglow as he stared out across the river, mind lost in some contemplation or thought, all of him washed in the warm yellow radiance of the setting sun.

Grantaire didn’t think he would ever not find a reaction in his heart at the sight of Enjolras, at the warmth of him, of the smell and touch of his clothing, of the way he would smile, smiles that were so heartfelt and so stunning he felt the world must have fallen down around them. As long as he walked this imperfect, flawed earth he’d want Enjolras there, as he had ever since he’d met him, so drunk and lost in some crowded bar whose name had sunk forgotten in his mind in the wake of the person he’d encountered there. 

All stars burned out eventually, he thought. But he didn’t think Enjolras ever would. And Grantaire, cautious and tentative and _terrified_ at the prospect, had nonetheless felt like perhaps he had been ablaze somewhat too these past few months. But he didn’t dwell too much on the idea, not like all other thoughts that would come unbidden into his mind for him to overanalyse. 

Enjolras’s eyes flickered to him, his head turning with the movement, and Grantaire, caught out, smiled. And a lot of Paris tumbled away when Enjolras smiled back, the hand he’d laced through Grantaire’s tightening. 

It was sometimes tiring labour, they were still working, still learning about one another, about themselves. And they were still slow with one another, fingers still fumbling, shaking with their movements, somehow both unhurried and frantic with how they took things, sometimes falling into bed with one another, lips bruising and hands rough, other times when Grantaire was sure his heart would burst just from Enjolras’s skin brushing his. 

And sometimes their quick words would burn the other, words that would sometimes not be fixed with swiftness. Sometimes Grantaire would feel like he was suffocating, heart too full and heavy to bear. But Enjolras too would have days where he’d press him closer under the covers, sleep still dragging at his eyelids as he held him so tightly, and the way he’d ask Grantaire to not get up, as if he couldn’t bear for him to move away, would made his heart stutter.

Half-deaf to the proceedings, Grantaire caught the tail end of the story Bahorel had been regaling them with from his time back home during summer, 

“-so we put the goat back and the businessman never knew we’d used his yacht in the first place.”

“That is the most unbelievable story I have ever heard in my life.” Feuilly told him flatly, seemingly struggling to hold back the grin on his face, as Eponine, Bossuet and Courfeyrac collapsed with laughter. Grantaire saw Combeferre smile, flicking a look at Enjolras, his glasses glinting in the evening light. 

“I’ve got pictures, sucker.” Bahorel told Feuilly, sliding across the wall to show him.

The sun had dipped out of sight now, streaks of light that leaked across the low cloud the only evidence that it was still there, behind Notre Dame. 

Grantaire leant against Enjolras, momentarily disentangling his hand to tug the gloves from his own fingers, taking the cold for the sake of bare skin touching. The evening light had sent their features into contrast, shadows on blonde hair, stroking the features of the person who seemed to be a personification of sunlight. Enjolras’s free hand began to trace idly along his arm, the warmth of his jumper making Grantaire immune to the cold air that September evening. And he dwelt on the morning, an image of Enjolras looking down at him, their foreheads pressed together before Grantaire pulled back to take in his expression, to take in the spark in those blue eyes, fair eyelashes glinting, words unneeded and unspoken. And Grantaire could feel him smiling now, like he could feel the pulse of blood in Enjolras’s veins beneath his fingers, alive, sitting on a world spinning the sun away until morning.

There was a brief lull in their conversations, a comfortable silence between them all, the sound of the flowing river and the whir of traffic a background for them, thirteen friends with Paris draped across their senses. 

And Grantaire kept his head leaning against Enjolras’s shoulder, half-imagining the warmth that flooded from him, and he listened to Jehan quietly talking once more, as they looked up at the few stars that were appearing in the hazy twilight over the Île Saint-Louis, burning quick and bright, perhaps a little like them. And Jehan talked of the dying summer, lamenting a day when it was sunny on the way to the Luxembourg Gardens, a sunlight with heat that made the clustered rooftops gleam. 

But Grantaire found little to lament, with Enjolras’s fingers wound through his, his grip as firm and strong as ever.

And Grantaire had once thought that all things should end with Enjolras’s hand in his. And that was how the evening ended, their hands entangled, sitting on a small, low wall by the river, Paris around them. Paris with its streetlights, its sun and its stars, and Enjolras. And Grantaire smiled at that, because no other place could be so lit, or so shining.

And the winter winds might slowly be starting to sweep through the city, and the tips of his fingers that were not wrapped in Enjolras’s might be starting to grow chilled. But Grantaire had never felt warmer.

And they were poor and young and happy, and life could never really be perfect. But as they all sat there together, a group of friends watching the dying light of the autumn evening in a city swathed in history and light, Grantaire thought they’d got as close to perfection as mortals could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh MY GOD did I actually finish something I don't even know anymore I'm so nervous about posting this chapter ah
> 
> I started writing this in a tiny uni room one day in March when my flatmate was playing Paolo Nutini on loop and I needed to vent some exr feels and WOW here we are however many months later
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been reading this, and saying hi on tumblr and commenting and just wow thank you it is so unbelievably heartening to know people are reading and liking the stuff you've written
> 
> I kind of want to continue this thing forever but I feel like now's a nice place to stop it-I'm kind of considering one shots sometime perhaps? I don't know depends how y'all feel about that? It could just be coming from the part of me that refuses to accept things are dead (like certain hot revolutionaries wat)
> 
> anways I am forever [here on tumblr](http://icarus-drunk.tumblr.com/) and [this is a map](http://icarus-drunk.tumblr.com/post/60561904926/ok-so-i-got-an-anon-asking-about-all-the-places-i) of most of the sites in Paris I've used throughout this! also check out  
> [this awesome edit](http://blackbirdbaroness.tumblr.com/post/59495851028/but-paris-was-a-very-old-city-and-we-were-young-by/) by blackbirdbaroness cos aahhhhh wowie
> 
> once again just a big old sloppy thank you to everyone who's read this ~~i love youuuu~~
> 
> over and out I suppose


End file.
